


Sideliners

by cesau



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Adventure, Bromance, Gen, Humor, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cesau/pseuds/cesau
Summary: “Sorry? Did you say 'no'?” Forsyth and Python are left behind when the Deliverance marches on Zofia Castle, so they'll just have to create their own adventure.Or: Alm does a no-recruitment run.





	Sideliners

It wasn't long after Python had sent him into the hideout that the count's grandson returned, this time leading a whole retinue of Deliverance soldiers, Clive at the helm. They marched by in their neat little lines, steady and stern-faced – marching to the grave and prettied up for it, too, by Python's reckoning, but he wasn't about to say so.

Some of the soldiers still looked to Clive, but they were _all_ following the kid, and that was...something else, Python thought. They passed him by as if nothing had changed, and he was just curious enough to want to know what was going on.

He wasn't about to stop Clive, but he caught sight of Lukas in the crowd, and he figured he could get his answers there.

“Heading out again already?” he asked, falling into step beside him. Lukas didn't falter, only spared him a passing glance and a quick nod of acknowledgment. If whatever had happened back in the base had affected him, he wasn't showing it – but then again, there was a lot Lukas didn't show.

“We're marching on Zofia Castle,” Lukas said. And that was a hell of a thing, delivered with all the concern as if he'd just told Python they were headed for a brisk stroll through the gardens. It wasn't anything as simple as that – the Deliverance had been run out of that castle nearly a year ago and they'd refused to touch it since.

“What'd the kid say to get Clive to change his mind?” Python asked.

“The order didn't come from Clive,” Lukas answered, sporting one of his mysterious half-smiles. “In fact, he's handed leadership over to Alm.”

Python actually stumbled in his step at that news, but if Lukas caught it, he was polite enough not to say anything. All Python could think was that he sort of wished he'd been there to see that particular exchange take place: he was having a hard time imagining a picture-perfect noble like Clive handing the reins over to some old knight's illegitimate grandkid. No, he decided, shaking his head, that was the sort of thing you really needed to witness in person.

“So he's taking all the Deliverance?” Python asked.

“Most of it,” Lukas corrected. “A portion of the forces will stay here to guard the rear. We know Desaix has been cavorting with pirates in the south; it wouldn't do to be caught off-guard when the stakes are so high.”

It almost sounded like a reasonable plan, except there hadn't been an attack from the south in more than a fortnight, and Python didn't see why the bandits should suddenly regain interest now. And something in Lukas's tone set Python on edge, a sort of uncertainty to the way he said 'a portion' of the forces.

Looking around, Python thought he had a pretty good guess as to why. Making up the march, he saw plenty of nobles and plenty of foot soldiers, people with passable talent and not a whole lot else – but he didn't see Forsyth, who should have been right up at the head of the line with Clive and Lukas.

“Lukas...” he said warily.

“Clive needed someone to lead the forces here, and Forsyth was the best fit,” Lukas said. He paused and looked away, then added, “He did seem to take it better than expected.”

Whatever Lukas thought he saw, Python had a hunch it wasn't as clean as all that. When it came down to it, the man didn't really _know_ Forsyth, not like Python did, and Python knew him well enough to know there was no way Forsyth could just brush something like that off. He might put on a brave face and say he was fine, but he'd still find some way to take it as a personal failing.

It all amounted to one big mess, and Python was pretty certain he'd be the one who'd have to fix it.

“Any orders for me?” he asked carefully.

“None at all,” Lukas said. Python nodded his thanks: he wasn't sure whether that'd been Lukas's doing or Clive's, but he wasn't about to question it.

“Watch your back out there,” he said, and then he ducked out of the march and leaned back against the walls of the catacombs while the rest of the soldiers kept on. He only watched them for a moment – there was nothing for him there. Before the last of them had gone, he turned around and headed in the opposite direction, back to the heart of the hideout, where he figured he'd find Forsyth.

It was a quick jaunt through the halls, which were already disturbingly quiet in the wake of the soldiers, and Python shuddered walking through them. The place had never really felt so much like a tomb before, not when it'd had all those living souls wandering around. Superstitious or not, he felt a sense of relief passing through the arch of the well-lit shrine, where no terrors had ever bothered to tread.

He found Forsyth right where he expected, standing alone in front of the Mila statue with a lost look on his face, a slight frown curling his lips.

“Still here, huh?” Python greeted as he ducked through the entrance. Forsyth offered him a quick glance of recognition and then he looked away. Python spotted trouble from the start: his whole posture was off, drawn in and small like he was trying to disappear into the air, and Python decided he'd been right on the money. Forsyth was trying to keep it together, but he definitely hadn't taken the news well.

“I offered my assistance,” Forsyth muttered. “Sir Clive suggested my efforts would be better spent here.”

“I'm just surprised you didn't go chasing after 'em anyway,” Python teased. He was rewarded with Forsyth glaring at him, red-faced.

“Sir Clive gave me a very important mission!” Forsyth yelled. He stepped forward and clenched his fists, and Python was relieved to see some of his usual energy returning. “That goes for you as well, Python, as long as you're still here! We're to defend the hideout until he returns!”

It didn't sound like much of a mission, and Python knew a platitude when he saw one. He was willing to bet Clive had phrased it like that just to get Forsyth off his back, even if his intentions honestly had been good...and the fact was, Python wasn't so sure about that anyway. But the idea was to cheer Forsyth up, not tear him down more.

“So what are you moping for?” Python said. Forsyth huffed and turned away.

“I'm not moping!” He was quiet for a moment, and then he sighed and said, “It's only...he took Lukas, but not us. We're his advisors, too. I really didn't think I'd be left behind.”

 _Could've told you to expect that,_ Python thought. The difference between the two of them and Lukas was that Lukas was a noble. Maybe now Clive had Alm, that immaculate mix of nobility and commoner, he'd lost his use for no-names like him and Forsyth. Maybe all they'd ever really been good for was drawing in other poor saps chasing after impossible dreams.

Or maybe he was reading too much into it, but it took a lot to put a dent in Forsyth's good cheer, and that Clive had somehow pulled it off meant Python wasn't feeling particularly optimistic in that instant. All of it only served to reinforce something he'd always believed: the Deliverance could espouse as much fancy rhetoric as it wanted about equality and fairness for the common man, but it would never amount to much. In the end, it always came down to one thing: there was a system in place, and the folks on top weren't keen on changing it.

But Forsyth had never really understood that, and Python doubted he was about to start now.

“Do my ears need cleaning or are you actually complaining about Clive giving you work?” he said instead.

“I'm not complaining!” Forsyth straightened his shoulders and glared, and that was close enough to normal that Python considered his job here done. “Honestly, Python! And you say _I_ take everything too seriously.”

And that was all there was to say about it. Ever the good little soldier, Forsyth took to his new job with about as much enthusiasm as could be expected (less than usual for him, but still more than Clive would've gotten from anyone else). And if he was a little less energetic in the following weeks, well, Python figured he was entitled to that much.

It was nothing he couldn't handle.

* * *

The start of Avistym was all manner of dull and hot and dreadful, but only a few weeks in, Clive and his new pals had somehow managed to retake Zofia Castle and start the homeland on the path to liberation. While everyone else celebrated, Python took a moment to wonder whether Clive was bothered that a no-name kid from some backwater village had pulled off in one season what the Deliverance hadn't managed after a full year.

(On second thought, he figured, a do-gooder like Clive? Probably not. But the other nobles he'd taken with him...now _they_ were another story entirely.)

Either way, the problem was, after they went and did all that, there wasn't a whole lot of use for the folks left behind at the hideout. Ostensibly, their purpose was to guard the rear, but the fighting should have been over then. Sure enough, when the messenger arrived to pass along news of the main army's victory, they were given the go-ahead to move on.

With the castle free, the forces that had been left behind at the start were finally able to abandon the crypt they'd been calling home. Most of them were glad for it. Python certainly was – guard duty had been boring enough even when there were actual threats to guard against. Ever since Alm's crew had started tearing up the Zofian countryside, all their usual enemies had bigger things to worry about than some two-bit recruits scrambling around a monster-infested tomb. As expected, Clive's supposed pirate threat never reared its ugly head.

With news of the victory, it was only a few days later that Forsyth rounded up the miserable group they'd been left with and headed the march to the castle. He was at his best that morning, more lively than he'd been in a long time at the prospect of rejoining the main force. He wouldn't shut up about making up for lost time, and Python would have found it annoying if the silence of the past few weeks hadn't been so unsettling. As it were, seeing Forsyth acting fully like himself again was almost a relief, and even Python was starting to catch the excitement over meeting up with Lukas and the rest.

So of course by the time they got there, the whole lot of them were long gone.

It turned out Alm was a lot more ambitious than any of them had given him credit for: not content with just taking back the castle, when Desaix fled, the kid decided to up and declare war on the Rigelian Empire. When it came down to it, Python considered himself lucky he hadn't been roped into all that. Defending Zofia was one thing (and it wasn't like he'd done that of his own volition anyway), but marching on a country like Rigel, a place _built_ for winning wars? It sounded like a lot of wasted effort.

Forsyth, of course, didn't see it that way. About as soon as they set foot past the castle gate, he was looking for a way to leave. All he wanted was to hit the road, catch up to Clive, and throw his lot in with the warring idiots – and the fact was, Python would have gone with him (and complained the entire time), but it didn't come to that.

Once again, Clive had orders for them, and they were the same as before: stay behind and guard the rear. 

He couldn't even be bothered to give the message in person this time. Instead, they heard it from some kid he'd stationed at the castle solely for that purpose, and it was so pointless Python wondered why he hadn't just left a damn letter.

Oh, Clive had his reasons, a careful explanation: he needed forces at the castle; he couldn't just leave the place open to the nobles still allied with Desaix; and then there was that ever-present threat of bandits. And on a better day, Python might have even granted him that made sense.

But today, Forsyth was just learning that his personal hero had passed him up yet _again_ , and the way he was taking the news meant Python wasn't feeling terribly gracious.

The messenger met them at the entrance of the castle, delivered the order, and went on his merry way. For a second, Python thought Forsyth might take off right after him, but instead he stood there in the main hall, shoulders stiff and face blank. That level of calm on a guy like Forsyth was just plain unnerving.

“You okay there, pal?” Python asked.

“Fine,” Forsyth said, voice strained. He stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact. His hands, balled into white-knuckled fists, were shaking. “I'm just fine.”

And that was a lie if Python had ever heard one, but Forsyth marched on into the castle before he'd even come up with a response.

And if he was being honest, Python didn't know what to say anyway.

* * *

The following weeks were a special kind of hell...probably for the both of them, if Python had to guess, but it was Forsyth's fault either way. At the hideout, Forsyth had been unhappy enough, but at the castle, he was something else entirely, to the point Python struggled to even describe it. Eventually, it struck him that he'd only seen someone looking that uselessly miserable once before, and he couldn't decide if the realization was funny or just pathetic.

Back home, there'd been this girl. She went and fell head over heels in love with a traveling merchant – starry eyes and soft sighs, the whole deal. On her end, anyway. The merchant stayed one season, got his fill, and moved on, and for the rest of the year, the girl wandered around town looking empty and lost.

And that was exactly the way Forsyth was acting now. He was moping around the castle like a heartsick girl, and it was driving Python up the wall.

He was no stranger to Forsyth in a foul mood – he was an expressive guy, and when something was off, it wasn't hard to tell. And Python had never had any trouble nudging him out of those moods, either; at the core of it, Forsyth was strong. It wasn't hard to get him back to himself.

But being left behind was really doing a number on him. Looking back, Python supposed he'd been putting on a brave face ever since the hideout, and he wasn't sure how he'd missed it, but the mask was crumbling now. Forsyth wandered the halls with that hopeless expression, and nothing Python said seemed to affect him at all. And Python _did_ try, foreign as the feeling came.

The first thing that came to mind was to tease him, because that had always come natural enough. It was how they'd always gotten on, needling at each other until something snapped, then forgetting just as easy. That was normal, and normal was exactly what Python was after.

He found Forsyth on the castle balcony one evening, standing with his back straight and gazing out at the setting sun with the kind of look a poet might describe as 'wistful' or 'longing.' As far as Python was concerned, it skewed more toward 'pathetic,' and that wouldn't do. He sidestepped the orange crates and sidled up next to him, leaned over the railing, and grinned.

“Aw, why the long face, pal?” he said. “Some dashing rogue break your heart? See, I only ask 'cause you're looking like something out of a trashy play right now. All you're missing is the heaving bosom and dramatic sigh.”

“Very funny, Python,” Forsyth said, no energy to his voice. He didn't even turn to look at him. “Was there something you needed, or did you just come out here to make fun of me?”

“You looked lonely. I thought I'd keep you company.”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't.”

Ordinarily, Python would have assumed that was a lie, but the lack of emotion in his voice made him think he actually meant it. He didn't know how to react to the shut-down – Forsyth had always answered his barbs loudly and enthusiastically. Apathetic quiet was something new for the both of them.

It was wrong, and he didn't know how to make it right, so he stayed where he was until Forsyth was done brooding and headed back inside.

That was about the point where he noticed Forsyth had changed again. He went from looking broken and miserable to looking like...nothing. He didn't smile and he didn't frown, just wandered around with a blank face doing nothing more and nothing less than the job demanded. Forsyth had never done _anything_ by half-measure, let alone Deliverance work.

And Python had no idea how to handle that. He'd never seen Forsyth so closed-off before; he hadn't even known he had it in him. It was his first clue that something somewhere along the line had gone wrong worse than he was prepared for – but he didn't catch it right then. Then, he just decided that if Forsyth had changed, well, Python would have to mix things up to match him.

So when the usual methods failed, he tried being nice.

Forsyth was technically in charge of the forces at the castle now, and he took it upon himself to keep them all in fighting shape. Never mind that all the soldiers combined barely filled half the barracks' training yard, never mind that they hadn't seen even the hint of a real threat since they'd arrived – Python wasn't sure if he was just that diligent or if he was overcompensating, but Forsyth ordered the lot of them into the grounds every morning before the sun was up, and they stayed there until well into the afternoon. It looked exhausting and pointless, but it kept him occupied for the better part of the day, so Python wasn't complaining (besides, he'd never felt the need to join him in those training sessions, and Forsyth hadn't gotten around to forcing the issue).

All in all, he figured it was to Forsyth's credit that he was putting that much effort into his work when his work was the thing making him so miserable in the first place. And Forsyth had always soaked up praise like a sponge in water, so it couldn't hurt to say so.

Python tracked him down during his drills one morning, trying not to wince at the run-down men lining the yard. Most of them looked dead on their feet, leaning on their lances or near to dropping their swords in exhaustion. More than a few were leveling glares right at Forsyth, who wasn't looking much livelier, but the early hour probably had nothing to do with it in his case. His voice was clear anyway when he shouted out his orders, and unhappy or not, his soldiers listened. They moved as one, natural as a real battalion instead of the unsavory leftovers of what had always been a patchwork army.

Python watched them for a while, and at their first break, he fell in next to Forsyth and nudged his shoulder.

“This is impressive,” he said. “I'm pretty sure they all hate your guts, but you've got 'em falling in line anyway.”

“They're not _you_ , Python,” Forsyth said distractedly, surveying the yard. “They understand the importance of training, even if they don't enjoy it.”

“Hey, all the same. Hats off to you, pal.”

Forsyth spared him a sidelong look. “ _You're_ meant to be out here too, you know. I don't have time to track you down every morning, not when I've got to do the same for all of _them_.” 

He motioned to the soldiers, who couldn't have been able to hear what he was saying from that distance, but they somehow looked cowed for it all the same.

It was something of a relief to know that Forsyth wasn't so far gone he'd stopped caring about putting Python to work, but it also meant the conversation was quickly sliding into territory Python was much happier avoiding. He had no intention of joining the daily torture sessions, no matter what Forsyth wanted to call them.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, hey, just wanted to say I appreciate the effort you're putting in here. So, y'know, good on you. Keep at it!” 

And then he ducked away and made for the exit before he could be roped into the drills like the rest of those miserable saps. He waited for the telltale shout, to hear his name called out loud enough to make his ears ring, all in that exasperated tone only Forsyth had ever really mastered.

He was only a little disappointed when it never came.

* * *

When nothing else could put a dent in Forsyth's foul mood, Python had to admit to worrying. The man ignored his teasing, he brushed off kindness – as a last resort, Python even tried talking sense into him, even though Forsyth was far and away the least rational person he'd ever known.

When Python cornered him in the barracks right before he turned in for the night, it wasn't so much an intentional effort to talk to him privately as it was the result of his waffling about the decision until the day was almost lost. But it worked out anyway, and it might have been because he was expecting solitude, but the expression on Forsyth's face when he stopped him in the hall was less guarded than it had been in weeks. Python couldn't decide whether that was good or bad, because all he could see there was _hurt_.

He actually faltered a second before he managed to say, “You wanna talk about it?”

“About what, Python?” Forsyth said. He opened the door to his quarters and stepped in, and he didn't seem surprised when Python followed.

“I dunno, how about whatever it is that's got you walking around looking like a kicked puppy.”

Forsyth spun around and glared at him.

“Being abandoned, Python,” he said. “I'm _unhappy_ because we were _abandoned._ You ought to be, too! Or at least angry! You should feel _something_!”

“That's not what happened,” Python said. Forsyth turned his back and went silent, sulking like a petulant child, and Python groaned. “Look, you said it yourself: guarding the hideout was an important mission. And it's the same thing here: _someone's_ gotta do it, and it's gotta be someone who knows what they're doing. Clive left you in charge for a reason.”

“Or perhaps he just wanted to be rid of me,” Forsyth muttered. Python would be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his own mind, but it felt wrong to hear something that cynical coming out of Forsyth's mouth. 

“Come on,” he said, moving to the other side of Forsyth, who still had his back turned. “That's not-”

And he stopped short, because Forsyth looked up, eyes wet, and- _and he was crying_. Oh gods, he was crying.

The thing was, he'd seen Forsyth cry before, more than once. But they were usually tears of joy or relief, and he hadn't actually seen him cry for any _normal_ reason since they were kids. He couldn't remember how he'd responded then, but it couldn't possibly have been worse than his reaction now, because he completely froze.

Forsyth stared at him for a long moment, sniffling, and then he turned around and walked over to his bed, sat down, and buried his head in his hands. And because thinking didn't really seem to be doing him any good, Python decided instead to follow his instincts.

Feeling awkward in a way he hadn't in a long time, he sat down next to Forsyth and dropped an arm over his shoulder. And Forsyth leaned into him, so he figured he'd at least done that right.

“If Clive wanted you gone, he'd have told you to go,” Python said. “Where'd all this come from, anyway? It's not like you to be talking down about a high-born knight. What happened to the guy who was practically falling all over himself for the chance to serve his country?”

“Perhaps he started listening to you,” Forsyth murmured. He let out a long sigh, then leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. When he turned to Python again, he was frowning, but he looked marginally more composed. “I'm not... I know Sir Clive left us here for a reason. I _know_ that. It's just...it feels like I'm not _doing_ anything. Like I'm just sitting here, wasting time, while the rest of the Deliverance is out there, risking their lives!”

 _That's pretty much exactly what's happening,_ was Python's first thought, but he kept it to himself. Instead, he settled lamely on, “You're doing your job.”

“That's...not terribly helpful,” Forsyth said.

“Come on, gimme some credit – at least I'm trying.”

“And here I never thought I'd see the day.” The hint of a smile started to show in Forsyth's expression, and he shook his head. “I do appreciate it, anyway.”

“Stop, you'll make me blush,” Python teased, and it got the expected laugh out of Forsyth.

“Yes, well, I should get some rest or I'll be worse than useless in training tomorrow,” Forsyth said. He looked to Python and added, “You should, too.”

 _Get some rest or join your training,_ Python almost asked, except he was pretty certain the longer that conversation went on, the more likely it was he'd find himself guilted into running drills with the rest of the masochists. So instead he grinned and kept his mouth shut until he was at the door.

“I'll take it under consideration,” he said.

He could tell by the look on Forsyth's face he hadn't been convincing.

* * *

Forsyth probably would have been surprised to discover that Python actually did consider his words...just not quite the way he'd intended.

If nothing else, that conversation had given Python a starting point, something to work with. Forsyth's issue was that he wanted to be doing something useful, so, even though it ran contrary to every fiber of his being, Python went looking for work. (It helped not to think too much about what he was doing. There was just something profoundly unsettling about the concept.)

Fortunately, he didn't have to look very far. It was only two days later he found himself loitering in the great hall of the castle, watching the visitors come and go. Most who passed through were nobles who Python suspected had about as much reason to be clogging the hallway as him – though in their case, it was probably a status thing. In his...well, people-watching here was more entertaining than looking for new napping spots around the barracks.

But there were also the occasional peddlers or city-dwellers looking for help from the crown. Not many, because they'd all found out pretty quickly that there wasn't any help to be found here, but when a man was desperate enough, Python supposed he'd be willing to try anything.

See, the trouble with the castle was that Clive – or Alm, or whoever was calling the shots now – had had the foresight to install their little army there and put a commander at its helm.

What they'd _forgotten_ to do was leave someone in charge of the throne itself. In the absence of a ruler, Zofia's day-to-day affairs were handled by a small council of noblemen, who'd all apparently been advisers to the late king at one point or another. It wasn't hard to tell, given their impressive inability to get anything done. None of the Deliverance soldiers had ever had cause to petition them, but Python had seen plenty of common folk walk into their halls with hopeful faces, only to leave disappointed. Far as he could tell, the only thing the councilors ever actually accomplished was to lock themselves in chamber and argue entire days away.

And apparently they'd done it again today, because two unhappy peddlers were lingering by the throne room, muttering some low conversation. The scowls on their faces gave Python a fair idea of what they'd come for and what they'd failed to find, and he crept up closer to get a better ear for what they were saying.

“...an entire shipment, gone! And they expect us to believe there's really nothing they can do?” one of the men said.

“They'll be singing a different tune once it starts affecting the supply here,” the other replied. “Give it long enough, and the bandits'll start hitting the major roads, too.”

And wouldn't you know it, _that_ sounded like exactly the sort of problem Python and Forsyth were equipped to handle. Python grinned and sidled up to the men.

“Bandits, huh?” he said. “I might be able to help you out with that.”

The men looked mildly offended at the intrusion. One of them looked him over and said, “Doubtful. The way they've been raiding the trade routes, we've got nothing to pay you with.”

“Not looking for payment – I'm a soldier.” He bit back a laugh at the skeptical looks thrown his way, because he really couldn't fault them for that. “No, really, I am. Which means my help is free, so if you really want someone to look into your bandit problem...”

And, well, they weren't exactly in any position to say no.

Then it was just a matter of telling Forsyth, and Python didn't waste any time with that. He sought him out after his training that evening to share his plans (feeling both proud of and disgusted with himself for having become the sort of person who _made plans_ ).

He made it to the grounds right as the drills were ending. Forsyth trudged out of the yard after the quick flood of soldiers, looking about as content as he ever did these days, and Python decided right then he'd be relieved if he never had to see that too-familiar look of exhaustion on his face again.

He whistled to get Forsyth's attention, then grinned and waved him over.

“Hey, Forsyth!” he called. “Got some good news for you!” 

Forsyth made his way over, and his expression then was more skeptical than anything, which was kind of a disappointment. Well, it didn't matter – this whole thing was supposed to fix that. 

“You said you wanted something to do, right?” Python said. “Well, I found us something to do.”

“You? Really?” Forsyth crossed his arms. “ _You_ found us something to do?”

“Sure did. Pack your bags, Forsyth, old pal: we're hitting the road.”

Forsyth stared at him blankly for a moment. Then he turned and walked away, sighing loudly. Python rolled his eyes and hurried after him.

“Come on, at least hear me out.”

“We're not leaving the castle, Python. We have orders to stay here.”

“No, we have orders to keep the place safe – you've been training these idiots for weeks now, just leave one of them in charge. Anyway, we're going on official soldiering business, protecting the realm and all that, so don't worry your pretty little head about ditching your responsibilities, or whatever it is you're thinking.”

Forsyth stopped walked and turned to him.

“'Official soldiering business?'” he repeated dully.

“We got a bandit problem in the southeast,” Python said. “I overheard some merchants talking about it earlier.”

“Then they can petition the council-”

“They already did. Three guesses what their answer was, and the first two don't count.”

“Then you already have your answer: we can't deploy the army without the council's approval.” Forsyth frowned. “At least, I don't think we can. Sir Clive didn't really leave any detailed instructions about that, but I'm almost certain-”

“We don't need the army,” Python explained. “It's just a small group tormenting some backwater village, no more'n a dozen or so men. We can take 'em ourselves.”

“We have our orders,” Forsyth said with finality. “We're staying here.”

He started to walk away again, and Python found himself at a loss. He hadn't actually expected Forsyth to need any convincing; he figured he'd jump at the chance to pull some heroics. But Python was a quick enough thinker when he needed to be, and it didn't take him long to formulate a new argument. He caught Forsyth right as he entered the barracks and tried again.

“In all those stupid stories you used to read as a kid, what made the knights so special?” he asked.

Forsyth, who apparently hadn't realized he was still being followed, jumped at his sudden presence. Then he turned and narrowed his eyes.

“What are you on about?” he said.

“The knights, Forsyth. What's so great about knights? I never could get you to shut up about 'em before, so don't feel like you need to start now.”

“Why are you asking me about knights?”

“Just answer the question.”

Forsyth faltered, then went quiet for a moment, like he was trying to figure out if this was some sort of jape. When Python made no move to leave, he stammered out, “Well, they're brave, and noble, and good...”

“Uh-huh, but _why_? What makes 'em so good? What do they _do_?”

Forsyth thought a moment. 

“They protect the people,” he said.

Python snapped his fingers and grinned. “Exactly! So that's what we're gonna do.”

Forsyth frowned, and Python wondered what problem he'd invented _now._

“So you found a job for knights,” Forsyth said. “But we're _not_ knights, Python. We're just soldiers.”

“Not sure if you've noticed, but we're running something of a knight shortage here,” Python said. “The former Knights of Zofia are all off fighting Rigelians, and that means someone else is gonna have to pick up their slack. People are getting desperate, Forsyth. They don't care who's helping, so long as someone does.”

Forsyth was quiet for a moment, and he seemed to be considering the idea. When he got that hopeful look in his eyes, Python was sure he'd gotten his point across, but Forsyth crossed his arms and frowned again. Python was starting to think he was being difficult on purpose, because this was getting out of hand.

“You really want to moonlight as a knight?” Forsyth said.

And Python really, really did not. But the thought of saying no brought with it the memory of Forsyth crying in his room, the emptiness in his voice when he spoke of being left behind, and Python wanted _that_ even less. So he swallowed his pride and shrugged.

“Hey, like I said: someone's gotta do it.”

* * *

They set out the very next day, as soon as Forsyth had found some poor chump to take over as leader of the castle's forces. Of course, even then, the only reason Forsyth agreed to the work at all was that it would only take a week or so to complete. The road being plundered was a small offshoot of the major trade route running through the Zofian plains, one leading out of a village about two days southeast of the capital. Two days travel, another two or three days to solve the problem, and another two days to get back to the castle: quick and easy. At least, that was how Python had had to sell it.

Once they'd left the castle, the journey was easygoing and quiet. It was nothing like the last time they'd traveled alone together, on their way to join the Deliverance. Then, Forsyth chattered on about a mile a minute, and most of his words came down to orders for Python to move faster. Now, it was all Python could do to nudge him into any conversation, and when their pace slowed to barely a crawl, Forsyth didn't even seem to notice. Python tried not to dwell on it. He reminded himself that things would be better once they'd seen this through, and that he should enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted.

In any case, it was thanks to their slowed pace that they ended up spending the night in a sizable town less than halfway to their destination, if Python was reading the map correctly.

They arrived just as the sun was setting and made their way to the local inn, where Forsyth probably would have just turned in for the night, left to his own devices. But Python had plans of his own.

It wasn't very long after the two of them had joined the Deliverance that Zofia had started its downward spiral, which meant most of their time since then had been spent either in battle or on the run. It didn't leave a lot of time for _fun_ , a concept Python was sorely missing. Back before all this mess, he'd never had a shortage of it. But losing your wits in the crypt was a good way to end up some terror's punching bag, and then at the castle he'd been too distracted by Forsyth's moping to really enjoy himself.

But Python had seen a tavern coming into town, and he'd decided right then and there where he'd be spending his evening.

Forsyth hadn't actually factored into those plans, at first. But then they'd gotten to the inn and paid for their room, and Forsyth's only reaction had been to step inside and just...stand there. And he looked bizarrely lonely, standing there in the middle of a mostly empty room, so Python made another decision.

“Leave your stuff here and follow me,” he said. “We're gonna go have some fun, paint the town red, the whole deal.”

Skeptical or not, Forsyth followed without complaint, and Python led him back to the tavern he'd seen earlier. Outside the doors, Forsyth sighed.

“I should have guessed this would be your idea of fun,” he said.

“I'm kinda surprised you didn't,” Python admitted. He pushed open the door and grinned. “Now come on.”

The moment the door was opened, they were greeted with the raucous chatter and laughter of the busy tavern, and stepping inside to the low light and the heady scent felt to Python like returning to a long-lost friend.

Forsyth, on the other hand, looked mildly affronted. Python didn't bother disguising his laugh as he led him to an open space at the end of the bar, where he signaled the barmaid over and ordered them each a pint of ale. Python took to it gladly, but Forsyth hesitated.

“What's the point of all this?” he said with a frown. “I don't see how this helps anything or, for that matter, what part of this is meant to be enjoyable.”

As much as Python had always enjoyed his nights out, he'd never been able to convince Forsyth to join him before. The man had always been too caught up in his training, turning his nose up at what he considered a waste of time. And Python supposed it made sense, too, that someone as tightly wound as Forsyth would have some reservations about letting loose. But there was no one left to impress now, and no reason to hold back.

“What have you got to lose?” Python said with a smirk. “Live a little.”

Forsyth looked down at his ale sadly. Then he shrugged, pinched his eyes shut, and tipped the flagon back and downed half the thing in one go – and he only stopped because Python grabbed at his arm and made him. The point was to get him to relax, not to drink himself sick, and if he kept up like that it wasn't going any other way.

“Alright, take it easy,” he said. “Correction: you can still lose your lunch.”

“I didn't eat lunch,” Forsyth muttered, but he slowed down. He also went quiet, but Python was willing to let that slide for now. With a little drink in him, he figured Forsyth to be the type who wouldn't shut up.

In the meantime, Python was content to amuse himself with people-watching, which also doubled as a means of goading Forsyth into conversation. And it was easy to fall into an old routine, because this was how he'd spent most of his nights on the town before the Deliverance, loitering in taverns and laughing at the mishmash of people there – except he'd always been alone then. He supposed that was the one upside to Forsyth's new melancholy: it was a lot easier to to drag him out of his comfort zone.

Over in the corner, a pair of stumbling men were in the midst of a heated argument that looked about two seconds away from coming to blows. Python grinned and nudged Forsyth's shoulder.

“What do you suppose they're fighting about?” he asked. “It's always sex or money, in a place like this. I'll say money with these two – faces like that, they'd be hard-pressed to find a girl to fight over in the first place.”

Forsyth turned to him and sighed. “Really, Python? Is that what you dragged me here for? So you could gossip like an old maid?”

“Well, either that or to have fun.”

“This isn't fun,” Forsyth muttered.

“Give it time,” Python said cheerfully.

That was the thing about taverns in small towns: being the only real place to go after the sun was down, they drew in all kinds of people, and that meant all kinds of entertainment. There was no end to the different sorts of people, and they sorted themselves so nicely, too. There were the barflies littering the dark corners; the socialites bouncing between tables; the desperate fools looking for company. He could spend the whole night going on about the humor of it all on his own...and at this rate, it looked like he might, because Forsyth wasn't having any of it.

When each pronouncement was met with the same indifferent sigh, he started switching it up to cruder variations, just to see if he could get a reaction. He was a little disappointed when the best he got was Forsyth turning a little red and muttering under his breath over a comment about an overly affectionate pair in the corner – which turned out to be the fighting men from before, and Python had to laugh because he really _hadn't_ seen that coming.

While he resolved to step up his game, Forsyth slid off his stool and raised his flagon.

“I'm going to get myself another drink,” he announced. The barmaid was at the other end of the bar, serving a red-faced old man. Python shrugged.

“Just call her over here,” he said.

“Quicker this way,” Forsyth muttered, and then he was off. In the few minutes he was gone, Python returned his gaze to the tavern at large, amused by the spectacle of it all. That Forsyth didn't see the humor in it was unsurprising but still a shame. They'd always had a difference of opinion about these sorts of things. Either way, he was determined that at least one of them was going to enjoy himself tonight.

After a few minutes, Forsyth returned to his seat with a new drink in hand, and he went back to solemnly sipping at it and ignoring Python entirely. For a little while, at least.

Python's first hint that something was wrong didn't come until Forsyth actually responded to one of his taunts. He'd been keeping tabs on the exploits of a casanova-wannabe all night, and he snorted when the man's latest failure resulted in a poignant slap across the face.

“Look at the ladykiller over there,” he said to Forsyth. “Think that's the fourth girl who's turned him down tonight.”

Forsyth tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, and then he shrugged and the beginnings of a smile began to play on his lips.

“Can you blame them?” he said. “Ladykiller may be an apt word for him...in a more literal sense, anyway. That is not a trustworthy face.”

It startled a laugh out of Python, though it also gave him pause.

“You trying to imply something there, pal?” he teased.

“That wasn't an implication, it was a statement of fact. Alas, these ladies are no fools, and so the streets shall remain safe this night.” Forsyth raised his drink in some sort of silent tribute, completely serious for about two seconds before he started snickering.

There was no question he was acting strangely, but no one was enough of a lightweight to get drunk off a pint and a half of cheap ale, not even Forsyth. The only question was what he'd gotten his hands on and how. Python leaned in and grinned.

“Whatcha you drinking there?” he asked.

“Rum,” Forsyth answered, unconcerned. He pointed to the barmaid. “She said it was stronger.”

“Well, she's not wrong. Any particular reason you wanted something stronger?”

Forsyth shrugged. “But I'm having fun now,” he said. And, well, that had been the whole point of it, so Python figured it wasn't really a problem. He stuck to his watered-down ale, but he didn't stop Forsyth from doing what he wanted.

And things were fine, at least for a little while. Then as the night wore on, a large group came bustling into the tavern. Python didn't notice at first – probably wouldn't have at all – except suddenly Forsyth took a keen interest in the lot of them.

“Python! Python!” Forsyth kept shoving at his shoulder until Python finally turned to him and muttered, _“What?”_ Forsyth pointed to the busy corner the newcomers had wandered into, eyes narrowed.

“Python,” he whispered, “that man over there.” It only took a moment for Python to realize he was pointing at a tall blond chatting up a busty girl in a low-cut dress, and then only a moment more before he realized _why_ , and by then Forsyth was already saying, “He looks like Sir Clive. That's not Sir Clive, right?”

“Clive's all the way at the border fighting Rigelians,” Python pointed out. “And even if he weren't, I doubt Mathilda'd let him get away with _that_.”

“Oh. Right.” Forsyth was quiet for a moment. Python turned away for a split second, and when he looked back, Forsyth was staring sadly into his rum. 

“Python,” he said suddenly, “Sir Clive left me behind.”

“Uh-huh,” Python said dumbly. He'd ditched them both, actually, but Python didn't really see how that was relevant here, or why Forsyth was bringing it up now, of all times.

Forsyth looked to him, brow furrowed and eyes wide, and asked, “Why? Was I not good enough? I thought- he made me a lieutenant, Python! I thought he trusted me. Why wasn't I good enough?”

His eyes started to go wet, and Python had the belated notion that this might not have been a great idea, after all. He was suddenly very uncomfortable as he shifted in his chair and scratched his head.

“You're fine,” he said nervously. “You did fine. You didn't do nothing wrong-”

“But he left me!” Forsyth said. With no warning at all, he dropped his head down and buried it in his arms, and then he went still. Python stared at him, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do about that. He poked at Forsyth's shoulder worriedly.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't want him to see me,” Forsyth whispered.

“Don't want who to-” Python groaned. “I already told you, that's not Clive!”

Forsyth's only response to that was an indecipherable muffled noise, and the maid behind the bar shot Python a warning look. Right, he decided, the night was probably over.

He dropped a handful of silvers on the bar and stood up, then reached over and shook Forsyth's shoulder, a little afraid that when he raised his head, he'd be full-out crying. But Forsyth turned his head to the side and looked up at Python, smiling again for whatever reason, and he only blinked and said, “Oh, is it time to go now?”

“It is definitely time to go,” Python agreed.

Forsyth was surprisingly steady on his feet the whole way back to the inn, and when he fell into bed he was out in a matter of seconds. Looking down at him, Python decided he wouldn't be trying that plan again, at least not until all of this was over. With that thought in mind, he fell into his own bed and let himself drift off.

It couldn't have been more than a few hours later he felt someone shaking his shoulder, and he shook the hold off, grumbling. He'd never been an “up before the sun” kind of guy, and he wasn't about to start now, no matter what mad ideas Forsyth had gotten into his head. He ducked away from the hand at his shoulder and burrowed deeper under his blanket.

“We should be going,” Forsyth said quietly, and then Python heard his footsteps moving away. He waited for more orders, because Forsyth wasn't the sort to give up that easily, but there was only silence.

He rolled over to see Forsyth at the edge of his own bed, hunched over, face pale. Everything about him screamed 'sick,' and Python figured it wasn't all that surprising, given the state he'd gone to bed in. He wasn't really sure how he'd managed to wake up so early in the first place, looking like that.

Python, for his part, felt perfectly fine, but he wasn't about to pass up the chance to sleep in.

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered.

“We need to reach the village-”

“No one's gonna notice if we're a few hours late.” And Forsyth really must have been out of it, because he made a pained noise and then fell onto his back, curled up, and actually went back to sleep. Python was more than happy to do the same.

But then apparently he'd been relying on Forsyth's wake-up calls for too long, because the next time he opened his eyes, it must have been well past noon. Even if they left that very minute, they couldn't have reached the village by dusk, and that meant they'd have to spend the night camping on the road. It occurred to Python that Forsyth might try to leave anyway, and he was a little relieved to see he was still fast asleep.

He made the decision that was really best for both of their sakes: he let Forsyth keep sleeping while he went out to find something to eat. It was late afternoon by the time Forsyth came around, and Python figured the yelling he got for that was worth it, if it meant spending the night at the inn instead of on the forest floor.

“It's just one night,” Python assured him. “One more night in civilization ain't gonna hurt anybody. Stop worrying so much and live a little.”

“Oh, don't you use that line on me,” Forsyth said. “We are _not_ going out again.”

Python snorted. “After last night? No, no we're not. We can stay right here. Right here with the nice, soft beds and the four walls and the roof-”

“You did this on purpose,” Forsyth accused. “You let me lay in bed all day on purpose, just so you wouldn't have to camp outside! Python, that's so _lazy_.”

“No, it's sensible. Come on, admit it: you'd rather be here, too.”

“I'd _rather_ be in the village, taking care of the bandit problem! Or back at the castle, which is where we're _supposed_ to be anyway.”

“Alright, none of that,” Python said, eager to head that topic off before it could get started. “Just get some sleep, and everything'll look better in the morning, I promise.”

“I doubt that,” Forsyth muttered, but he let the issue drop. And in the morning, when they took to the road, he didn't bring it up again.

* * *

They did find their way to the village eventually, and if it was a day later than planned, well, it wasn't as if anyone had been expecting them in the first place. The village elder they spoke to seemed pleased, if a little surprised, by their presence, and he was happy to share everything he knew about the bandit group – which wasn't much more than what Python had gathered back at the capital.

They were a small pack, no more than a dozen men, and they'd only been prowling the area for about a season or so. No one was wholly sure of where they'd come from, but the best guess was that they'd splintered from one of the western groups that'd been dismantled in the weeks before the castle was retaken.

It didn't really matter, in the end: what mattered was that they stalked the roads from noon to night, raiding any carts coming or going, and it was crippling trade in the entire region. The only reason they'd gotten away with it so long was that the affected area was small – the peddlers at the castle were right about one thing, Python knew: once their actions started to affect the capital, the castle's response would be swift and final.

Not that it would come to that – as long as the two of them were already here, the problem was ending, one way or another. Neither one of them was leaving until the job was finished. But it was still a nice story to tell to Forsyth, the next time he decided to start calling himself useless. After this, he'd be able to say he pretty much singlehandedly saved an entire village complex.

At this _exact_ moment, the significance of that might not have occurred to him, but Forsyth looked plenty excited anyway. They'd arrived at the village late in the day and the sun had set hours ago, so they found themselves spending the night in the village elder's home. The old man had gladly welcomed them for as long as it took to solve the bandit problem, and Python couldn't tell if his willingness to invite complete strangers into his home was a sign of desperation or naivete. He wasn't complaining, either way.

As soon as the invitation was extended, Python had been ready to lay out the bedrolls and get some shut-eye, because even when he'd been more accustomed to whole days spent on the road, he hadn't enjoyed it, but Forsyth insisted they devise a battle plan before morning. He was as eager as ever, and apparently under the impression there was no time to waste before getting to work. (Python had his own thoughts on that methodology, but Forsyth wasn't exactly interested in hearing about them.)

Forsyth sat on his bedroll by the far window, legs crossed and a worn notebook in his lap. He flipped through its pages with a look of concentration on his face, occasionally scribbling some notes down, and Python didn't have the curiosity or the energy to wonder what that was about. He felt tired just looking at him, and he didn't bother to bite back the yawn escaping his throat.

Forsyth looked up at the sound and tilted his head.

“I'm going through some of the elder's ledgers,” he said, though Python hadn't asked. Python didn't bother to point that out, either, so he figured it was only fair when Forsyth continued, “There are listings of all the surrounding villages and townships, as well as some maps. They've also been keeping track of most of the pilfered goods, and there are rather a lot of them. It's very handy – the more we know, the better-equipped we'll be to deal with the scoundrels!”

“Sounds...great,” Python said, scratching his head tiredly. “D'you really have to do all that tonight?”

“The sooner we take care of the problem, the sooner the people of the village can return to their own lives...and the sooner _we_ can get back to our post at the castle.”

“Got it all figured out, huh? So what's the plan, then?”

“I was considering that,” Forsyth said. He looked to Python and smiled. “What do _you_ think we should do? This was your idea, after all.”

Python froze. Between the two of them, Forsyth was the one who spent all his spare time reading war books and looking for new ways to gain glory on the battlefield. Python, on the other hand, had never put more thought into fighting than was absolutely necessary, and that usually didn't extend further than keeping himself and Forsyth intact and breathing past each skirmish. But Forsyth was staring at him with that stupidly hopeful face, and he figured there was only so much disappointment the guy could take in quick succession. So he swallowed his pride and gave strategizing a shot.

“We know where their hideout is, and we know they don't head out till mid-afternoon, at least,” he said slowly. “So if we can catch them in the early morning, I can take a few of 'em out from a distance before they even know what's happening. Then _you_ just have to fend off the rest of the idiots who come running out. Right?”

“You're suggesting we take them by surprise,” Forsyth said warily, like Python had just said something particularly offensive.

“There's at least a half-dozen of them, and two of us,” Python said. “You got a better plan?” He almost hoped the answer was yes, because planning ahead had never been Python's forte, and he was really just talking out of his ass here. But Forsyth only frowned.

“It just seems underhanded. We're proud soldiers of the Deliverance, not...not low-down sneaks!”

Python groaned, wondering how he could still be going on about honor and pride after everything they'd gone through. Annoyed, he countered, “We're not gonna be anything but dead if we just waltz up to them and politely ask for a fight!”

“I know that!” Forsyth yelled, face going a little red. He sighed and looked away. “Of course I know that. It was the first plan that occurred to me, too...I was just hoping you'd come up with something different. Er, thinking outside the box, or some such.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Python said mockingly, and Forsyth sighed again.

“I suppose it really is the best plan, though. It's not as if we have the time to call on the soldiers in the capital. Not when the village is counting on us.” He paused. “But you suggested we catch them before they wake, before sun-up. Are you certain you can land those shots in the dark?”

“Come on, you doubting ol' Python? I'm more than just a pretty face, y'know. Shooting arrows is my specialty.” He grinned, aiming for the most obnoxious variant of the look possible, but Forsyth only frowned.

“I'm not questioning your skill, Python; I'm questioning the fact that you've barely practiced at all since we left the hideout. All that talent is worthless if you're not going to put in any effort! Ah, I knew I shouldn't have let you slack off back at the castle...”

“You probably couldn't have stopped me,” Python admitted. He laughed when Forsyth glared at him. “Stop worrying so much. Just because I wasn't wasting my time learning formations we're never gonna need to know doesn't mean I wasn't practicing at _all_.” Except it sort of did, but hey, Forsyth didn't need to know that. “You can count on me.”

* * *

The next morning found them stumbling through the woods before dawn, ready to enact their not-so-noble plan. The forest outside the village wasn't all that big or difficult to navigate, especially using the maps provided by the elder. Finding the hideout had been simple enough – for how busy the bandits had been raising hell on the roads, they were pretty lazy about the set-up back home.

Their camp was just that – a temporary thing, only a few shoddy tents and a meager firepit set up in the middle of a clearing, backed by a shallow cave. It said something about their intelligence that they'd made it so easy to surround them, and something about how easy the job would be, too. Python would have guessed they'd been moving it around, but the worn areas on the ground made it clear they'd been in that location for some time.

And apparently they'd never been attacked in all that time, because sneaking up on them had been just about effortless. They'd managed to get close enough for a headcount: eight men total, sleeping soundly in their bedrolls around the pit. Weapons in hand, Python and Forsyth were crouched low to the ground behind the cover of the trees, watching for any movement from within the camp.

“Are you ready?” Forsyth whispered.

“Just say when,” Python replied.

Forsyth shifted next to him and leaned forward, eyes narrowed, taking in the group one final time. Then he stood up straight, took his lance in hand, and said, “When.”

“Aye, aye,” Python said with a grin, and he raised his bow. He nocked an arrow, going through a motion he'd repeated hundreds of times by now, and set his sights on one of the sleeping men. One clean shot, and he'd be out of commission. After that, he figured he could stick at least two more before the lot of them realized they'd been ambushed, and then it would be Forsyth's job to block them while Python continued to pick them off from behind his cover. Simple and clean, and the job would be done.

Python lined up his shot, drew his arm back, released, and watched the arrow sail through the air – and right over his target's head. He had a split second of hope before it instead struck the cast iron pot hanging over the firepit, and then a long moment of regret because the resultant clanging noise could have woken a hibernating bear miles away, let alone the near-dozen men sleeping right next to it.

He chanced a look over to Forsyth, who stared back with an expression of utter horror, as the first grumblings began to arise from the camp.

“This is why we practice!” Forsyth hissed.

The moment the noise had rung out, they'd both reflexively ducked back behind the cover of the trees, low to the ground. With an icy glare, Forsyth jerked his head in the direction of the camp, and they crept to the edge of their cover to catch a glimpse of the aftermath.

As expected, the noise had woken some of the men, and those who hadn't been roused by the clamor were now being shaken awake by their disgruntled comrades. For a moment after they'd all rejoined the realm of wakefulness, they just stood there in the middle of the camp, muttering in confusion.

And then one of them knelt down, picked up the wayward arrow between his thumb and forefinger, and swore. Loudly.

“We're under attack!” he yelled, and the entire group sprang into action, starting with a mad rush to their weapon stores.

“Now!” Forsyth whispered, but Python didn't need the heads-up. He'd already drawn his bow, aiming for the man who'd yelled, the biggest of the bunch and probably their leader. He loosed his arrow and watched just long enough to see it sink into the man's thigh – which hadn't been his aim, but it dropped him all the same and if it took him out of the ensuing battle, Python figured it didn't really matter.

He fired a few more potshots into the scrambling group before following Forsyth back into the cover of the thick wood. Then they were running, and he wasn't sure where, but Forsyth had always had a better head for battle so he was willing to let him lead here. Behind them, he could hear the shouts of the bandits, and he knew they weren't far behind.

Before long, they came to the mouth of another shallow cave, and Forsyth damn near shoved Python in before planting himself in the center of the opening, lance held at the ready. He must have been poring over those maps the night before to have found this place so quickly, and it was a good location for a fight, given the way the two of them tended to operate.

“Stay behind me,” Forsyth ordered.

“You got it,” Python answered easily. This was a routine they were both familiar with, though they'd never used it in quite such dire circumstances before: Forsyth acting as both bait and shield while Python fired away from behind the cover he provided. In an actual battle, they wouldn't be this close, and it wouldn't work so neatly, but it turned out to be the perfect maneuver here.

The bandits really _were_ amateurs; that much was obvious by the way they filed in line and rushed one-at-a-time to Forsyth, who had no trouble holding them off. He stood his ground, moving as little as possible, deflecting the blows from their axes and parrying with jabs of his own. While he held that position, Python easily picked off the men at the back of the funnel they'd inadvertently created – and from this distance, he had no reason to worry about missing any of his shots.

In spite of the rough start to it, the fight was over almost absurdly quickly. At the end of it, there were seven men scattered on the forest ground before them, most of them dead, and neither Forsyth nor Python had so much as a scratch on them.

Breathing heavy, Forsyth set his lance against the wall of the cave, and then he spun around, fury in his eyes.

 _“Python,”_ he said warningly. Python backed away, hands in the air.

“I don't know what you're mad about,” he said. “It worked out fine in the end.”

“You said you could make the shot!” Forsyth yelled, full volume. Python swore he heard birds fleeing nearby trees at the sound of it.

“And I thought I could!” he said. “Come on, it's been a while. So I'm a little rusty, cut me some slack.”

“As if you need any more slack,” Forsyth muttered. “When we get back to the castle, you're running drills with the rest of us. I don't care if I have to drag you to the field myself: I'll have no more laziness from you, not on my watch!”

After the disaster that had been this morning, Python was actually starting to think a little practice might not be a bad idea, at least if they were going to make a habit of attacking bandits like this. (He hoped the feeling would pass by the time they made it back to the castle, or that he could shake the idea that there might be more of this coming in the future at all.)

“It worked out fine,” he repeated.

Forsyth spent the entire journey back to the town lecturing him anyway, and Python tuned most of it out. He lobbed back a few taunts of his own, just for consistency's sake, but his mind wasn't exactly focused on the conversation. Instead, he was almost pathetically relieved and amused to see Forsyth back to his old self: loud and obnoxious.

And cheerful, too, once they'd actually made it back to the village proper and delivered news of their victory (as well as the surviving bandits). As they made to head back to the capital, the elder was practically falling over himself to sing their praises as the champions of the village.

“We'd given up hope on getting any help from the castle,” he said. “Not after the mess of the last few years. But it's a relief, it is, to know there are still good knights around. The whole village is in your debt. Thank you, Sir Forsyth!”

And while Forsyth sputtered out his protests at the mistake, the old man turned to Python and added, “You as well, Sir Python.”

He actually shuddered at the salutation. Besides the fact that it sounded ridiculous, the thought of him as a knight was enough to make Python's skin crawl. Meanwhile, Forsyth was still tripping over his words, probably horrified at the thought that he'd somehow disparaged the good name of the knighthood (not that it had a lot going for it these days). Still, Python had a heart, and he figured it was kind of cruel to let him flounder like that.

“We're not knights,” Python said. “Just a couple of foot soldiers.”

“Well, you've done more for us today than any knight ever has,” the elder said dismissively. “Perhaps the order needs more of your sort.”

“Yea, I'll be sure to pass that along,” Python said, raising one hand in farewell. The other he used to grab Forsyth by the arm and physically drag him out of the village before he could _really_ make a fool of himself. They were half a league out on the road before he actually regained his wits.

“He mistook us for knights,” Forsyth said. “Can you believe that? Us, knights?”

“That so hard to believe?” Python said. “We spend enough time around them. I mean, that's what you've been aiming for anyway, right?”

“Well, yes, but I'm nowhere near the level of a knight yet!”

“If you say so.”

Personally, Python didn't really see much difference in skill between Forsyth and the knights they worked with in the Deliverance. It all came down to bearing: namely, the knights walked around all high and mighty, looking down at everyone else like they were lower than the dirt beneath their boots; whereas Forsyth couldn't seem to stop looking _up_ , like he was blind to his own merit. And maybe that was why it took so little for a guy like Clive to knock him off balance.

“So how are you feeling?” Python asked, thinking back to the castle.

“How am I feeling?” Forsyth said, turning to Python with a quizzical look on his face. “What sort of question is that? I feel fine.”

And Python didn't have any reason to doubt that, with the way Forsyth suddenly picked up his pace and pushed on ahead. He was in a hurry to get back to the castle, apparently. Python rolled his eyes and whistled to get his attention.

“Would you slow down? You could run the whole way and we still wouldn't get there before tomorrow.”

“Not with an attitude like that!”

Python groaned, mostly for the disappointed look it made Forsyth shoot his way. It lasted only a moment before Forsyth was off again, but it was enough. For better or for worse, he was back to normal. 

And Python's feet were already killing him for it, but he just didn't have it in him to complain about that.

* * *

Forsyth's good cheer lasted them all the way back to the castle, where they were met at the gate by yet another of Clive's convenient messengers. Python bit back a groan at the sight of the man – whatever news he had to deliver, past experience suggested it wouldn't be welcome. But Forsyth wasn't at all put off by his presence, and he bounded up to the messenger without any hesitation.

“Is there news from the front?” Forsyth asked him.

“The Deliverance has won a great victory,” the messenger said, and that was when they learned of Desaix's defeat and the final push against the Rigelians still on Zofian soil. That should have meant the war was over, that Zofia had won back her independence and the Deliverance would return, that everything could fall back into place just like before.

But Forsyth's face fell at the news that Zofia's struggle had only just begun, that the Deliverance was pushing forth into Rigel proper now to face the emperor himself. The longing in his eyes made it obvious how much he wanted to be right there on the front lines with Clive and the rest of the headstrong idiots, but Python was ready to thank Mila or Duma or any other passing deity that they'd been left behind.

In his opinion, the whole venture was an exercise in futility, and they'd have all been better off just leaving well enough alone. It must have been pure luck that the Deliverance had managed to drive Rigel back as far as they did – even if they were under Alm's command now, there was no way the kid was _that_ much more capable than Clive, that their forces had suddenly become effective enough to come out on top over the strongest army in the world. Taking the fight to Rigelian soil, to their home turf, was just asking for trouble.

Then again, the fate of the world seemed far off and hard to quantify when he had Forsyth's obvious misery staring him in the face, and Python had the sinking feeling that they were about to relive those first few weeks at the castle, when Forsyth had been almost inconsolable. Python wondered how long he'd last before he was out begging for work again, just to make it stop (in the interest of honesty, the probable answer was 'not very').

So he was surprised when Forsyth stopped him the very next day and proudly announced a plan of his own.

“We're going north,” he said with no preamble, and Python could only stare.

“Run that by me again,” Python said. “I'm not sure I heard you right.”

“The Deliverance is in the north, and we're going to find them,” Forsyth said. “Now Rigel's been driven out of Zofia, we needn't worry about any ambushes on the castle. We'll leave the men here in case of any surprise, but the two of us should be free to rejoin the main army – Sir Clive's latest message contained no specific orders for us, so it shouldn't be an issue.”

“Not an issue? You're talking about running the both of us into the middle of a war!”

“We joined the Deliverance for a reason!” Forsyth insisted.

In Python's case, that reason had been a mixture of boredom and loyalty to Forsyth...but he was self-aware enough to realize the same reasoning meant he'd follow him into Rigel, even though it was a monumentally bad idea. He considered refusing just to get a rise out of Forsyth, but he still wasn't sure how sturdy this good cheer was and he didn't want to chance breaking it.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a sigh. “So when do we leave?”

“As soon as I receive permission from the council,” Forsyth said. “It was one thing when our travels only took us away for week. If I'm officially appointing another soldier as commander here, they need to be informed of it.”

Going through all that effort to appease a bunch of stodgy old men sounded like a waste to Python, even if he tangentially understood the importance of it. The fact was, there wasn't anything the council could say or do to either one of them (or anyone else, for that matter). They were leaders in the loosest possible terms, and they'd only gone that far based on their titles.

But Forsyth was as obedient as ever to the whims of the nobility, and Python's only relief was that he got his audience quick enough. In a matter of days, they found themselves standing in chambers before the five councilmen, sitting pretty behind their meeting table. The man in the center, their apparent leader, gestured to Forsyth.

“Speak,” he said. 

“Y-yes!” Forsyth squeaked. He cleared his throat awkwardly and, after a brief fumble, announced his intention to delegate his responsibilities to one of the soldiers under his command and head north...all for the good of Zofia, of course.

“S-so I'm seeking the council's permission to forge ahead with those plans,” he finished lamely.

The councilmen looked at him blankly for a minute, and it was the leader who eventually spoke again.

“Well, that's entirely within your rights,” he said. “You _are_ acting commander of the Royal Guard, after all. If the defenses here are in suitable condition and you think it's in Zofia's best interest that you head north, the council has no objections.”

Forsyth's reaction to that news was almost comical: in a matter of seconds, he paled and his entire body stiffened, and he looked to Python with terror in his eyes. It was understandable, though; Python wasn't faring much better at that pronouncement. All he could offer was a slight shrug, and Forsyth gulped and turned back to the council.

“Excuse me?” Forsyth said shakily. “Did you say...the Royal Guard? Did you say I've been commanding the Royal Guard?”

“Well, yes,” the councilman said. Python couldn't decide whether the expression on his face was confused or exasperated, but either way, he didn't seem to understand why that might be a problem. “When Sir Alm left for Rigel, he assured us the Deliverance's rearguard would take up arms to defend the castle...which is traditionally the role of the Royal Guard. We are rather lacking in royalty at the moment, but the nearest remnants of it are still here. You command the Deliverance's rearguard, ergo...”

“I command the Royal Guard,” Forsyth whispered. Then he went silent, standing there in complete shock, and it quickly became clear that he'd been rendered speechless (which was a real dignified way for a commander to act, Python mused). When the councilmen started looking noticeably uncomfortable, Python cleared his throat.

“Just give us a minute, yea?” he said to them, and then he grabbed Forsyth by the arm and pulled him over to the corner of the room. “You still in there, pal?” he asked.

“I'm the commander of the Royal Guard,” Forsyth muttered blankly, staring off at nothing. After a moment of silence, he blinked and suddenly his eyes darted to Python, wide and panicked. Waving his arms, he hissed, “I can't be commander of the Royal Guard! I'm not even a knight!”

“I don't think they care,” Python said, though he was having some trouble believing it himself. It meant Clive really _had_ left Forsyth in charge for a reason, for one thing. It also meant a group of the most hoity-toity noblemen in the country had knowingly left their defenses in the hands of a commoner, and that didn't jive with anything he knew about the ruling class. But he tried not to dwell on it at that moment – he didn't want to consider how messy the situation could become if they _both_ started panicking.

“Do you think there's been some mistake?” Forsyth said. “Perhaps they misinterpreted Sir Clive's orders! Or perhaps _we_ did? Or...or...there must be something! They can't have meant for this!”

“They've had a whole season to get rid of you,” Python pointed out. He grinned slyly. “I'm thinking that means you're doing a good job... _commander_.”

“Don't call me that!” Forsyth actually leaned in and clapped a hand over Python's mouth, gaze darting around wildly as if he were afraid someone might have heard the title. He was acting like a kid caught in a lie, and it was both funny and sad. Meanwhile, the councilmen were watching them in confusion, and Forsyth must have caught on to that because he stepped back, red-faced, and groaned.

“What do I do?” he said.

“Whatever you want, from the look of it.”

“That's not helpful!” Forsyth closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then muttered, “Whatever I want, is it?”

He marched back to the center of the room and addressed the council with his head held high.

“I apologize for the confusion,” he said. “It's all sorted out now. By your leave, I'll be stepping down as acting commander of the castle defenses in order to rejoin the army in the north.”

The councilmen nodded their approval, and Python supposed that was that. Forsyth seemed satisfied, anyway, as he strode out of the room with a smile on his face. Python followed, a little curious about his decision.

“Acting Commander of the Royal Guard, huh? That's a lofty title, and a pretty important job,” he said. “I'm kinda surprised you're turning it down.”

“We belong with the Deliverance,” Forsyth said, no hesitation. “ _That's_ where we're needed, so that's where we'll go.”

* * *

Actually getting to the Deliverance was another matter entirely.

They left the castle only days later, and with Forsyth's insistent pacing, they were at the western sluice gate in under a week. The road there had mostly been quiet and empty, which came as no surprise given the warfare it had just seen. Still, even this soon after Rigel's evacuation, the bolder merchants were starting to travel in groups again. It was reassuring, in a strange way, to see the people getting back to their usual routines, however slowly it happened.

Python had the notion in the back of his mind that the closer they got to the border, the more cautious the locals would be. After all, they were the ones who'd suffered the brunt of the invasion for the longest time.

With that in mind, the sluice keeper was not what he expected. The ravine separating Zofia and Rigel was massive, and there were only two bridges along the entire thing, both set behind sluice gates. In order to reach said bridges, one had to first get through the gates...which was easier said than done, apparently. The 'guard' at the gate might only have been a civilian, but that didn't seem to concern him much. He certainly had no problem telling two armed soldiers to back off.

“Crossing the border?” the old man said with a mocking grin. “I don't think so. No one comes or goes without express permission from the capital.”

“We just _came_ from the capital,” Forsyth explained tiredly. “We _have_ permission. We spoke to the council personally!”

“I don't see any proof of that.”

“We're clearly Zofian soldiers! We're armed! What reason could you possibly have for turning us away?”

“I've got my orders, and my orders say no one in and no one out,” the old man said stubbornly.

The back and forth went on for a good ten minutes, and Python had only let it go that far out of morbid curiosity. Then, before he could step in, Forsyth backed off on his own.

“Right then,” he muttered angrily. “We'll just be going.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out, and in his confusion, Python hesitated a moment before following. Outside, he half-expected to find Forsyth scaling the walls or doing something equally desperate and harebrained, but the man just kept walking down the road. Python actually had to jog to catch up.

“So, what, are we sneaking in now?” he asked. “Didn't think you had it in you, scheming like that.”

Forsyth turned and favored him with a confused look.

“Sneaking in?” he repeated. “No, we're going back to the castle, where we ought to have stayed in the first place. Coming out here was foolishness.”

“Hold up – not saying I disagree, but a week ago you were willing to ditch the highest rank you ever held for this 'foolishness'. What happened?”

“You heard his orders as clear as I did, Python. No one in, no one out.”

“And? Since when has someone saying 'no' been enough to slow _you_ down?”

Forsyth sighed, but when he turned to face Python, his expression wasn't quite as miserable as he'd expected. There was disappointment, sure, but none of the hopelessness he'd gotten so accustomed to at the castle. So it meant Forsyth wasn't taking it as hard as his perceived abandonment...but in that case, Python couldn't understand why he was giving up so easily.

“I was mistaken,” Forsyth said sullenly. “Those orders were very clear. I'd hoped to rejoin the Deliverance, but the borders have been secured for a reason. I suspect if we turn up out of the blue in Rigel, we're more likely to cause concern than anything else.”

“Uh-huh,” Python said, not following his logic at all. But if it meant staying out of Rigel...

“Anyway, the Deliverance is strong,” Forsyth continued. “They've made it this far without us, and they'll make it the rest of the way, too! So we'll just...” He trailed off, suddenly looking downcast.

Python sighed. It was like the guy couldn't decide on just one mood these days, and trying to keep up with him was getting to be a trial in and of itself.

“So we'll just get back to the castle and hold down the fort, huh?” he said. “Hey, I've heard worse plans.”

“I don't want to hear that from you,” Forsyth said, but he was smiling again. “We'll just have to trust in the Deliverance. They'll do their part in the north, and we'll do our part here. Everything will work out fine!”

Forsyth was chatty enough from that point on, and they were two days into the journey back and in the middle of another of their halfhearted arguments when Forsyth stopped suddenly and turned to the forest surrounding the road.

“Did you hear that?” he said, and in the sudden quiet, Python could make out the sound of distant shouting. Not too distant, though, because it wasn't long before he could clearly hear a man's voice, yelling out a name.

“Delthea? Delthea!”

It was only a few moments later some gangly redhead came stumbling out onto the road, a panicked look on his face. He was unarmed, dressed in fancy scholar's robes – not a merchant and not a traveler, which meant he was either a local or some sort of lunatic, to be traipsing through the woods on his own in this climate.

“Are you travelers?” the man asked, eyeing their weapons suspiciously. He carried himself with a sort of defensive posture, which Python found morbidly amusing. He wondered what exactly a skinny guy like that thought he could do against two armed men.

“Soldiers on our way back to the capital,” Forsyth answered. “What's happened?”

The man was visibly relieved at the words, and he closed the distance between them eagerly.

“Soldiers, is it?” he said. “Then please, could you help me? I'm looking for my sister. She's 13, a little small for her age, brown hair. Her name is Delthea. She runs off like this all the time, but we've had reports of bandits lately, and-”

“We'll find her,” Forsyth assured him. How exactly he planned on doing that was a mystery to Python, because it wasn't like they knew these woods better than a man who'd probably lived here his entire life, but the words seemed to calm the stranger down.

“Thank you,” the man said. He pointed to the place he'd come from and then to an area a little further down the road. “I've been through there, and I didn't see any sign of her. I was going to check over there next, but more eyes certainly couldn't hurt.”

“Right!” Forsyth said eagerly, and before the man could say anything else, he was running off into the woods shouting the girl's name.

“Um...” the man said awkwardly.

“Yea, he gets like that,” Python said with a shrug. “The name's Python, by the by. That bundle of energy over there is Forsyth. He'll be back in a minute, soon as he figures out he has no idea where he's going.”

“Right...well, in any case, my name is Luthier,” the man said, extending his hand. It seemed to Python like a strange place and time to be doing formal introductions, but he returned the handshake anyway, and then he started off in the same direction as Forsyth.

“Well, let's get looking.”

* * *

Python might have laughed at Forsyth's enthusiasm, but in the end, he _was_ the one who found the kid. Purely by luck, sure, but he pulled it off.

She wasn't in any danger at all, it turned out, skipping around some clearing in the forest with a cheerful grin on her face. Cheerful at least til the three of them came barreling through, exhausted after hours of searching. Then she just looked annoyed.

“Lu, what the heck are you up to?” she asked, hands on her hips. Luthier gaped at her.

“Looking for you, Delthea!” he cried. “You just took off this morning without so much as a by-your-leave! What on earth was I _supposed_ to do?”

“Ugh, you worry way too much. It's so uncool!” She glanced over to Python and Forsyth and pulled a face. “Wait, who are these two?”

“Traveling soldiers who were kind enough to assist me-”

“You called in _soldiers_? What were you _thinking_? I'm not a little kid, Lu! I was perfectly fine!”

“Young lady, you can't just disappear for the better part of a day and expect me not to worry!” And from there, he launched into a full-blown tirade. Judging by the absent-minded look on the kid's face, it was going in one ear and out the other, but it didn't seem to bother Luthier any. He kept on at full volume, totally oblivious.

Forsyth, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably.

“Are we...supposed to do something?” he whispered. “Is this normal? Do we leave now?”

“I have no idea,” Python admitted. Without meaning to, he found himself comparing the two to the only other pair of siblings he'd ever really known...and the thought of Clair shouting at Clive like that was some kind of absurdly funny. He wondered which set of them was stranger, or if either one was in the realm of normality.

But then, Forsyth didn't seem to see the humor in it at all.

“Excuse me,” Forsyth called out nervously, interrupting Luthier's rant. “But is everything well?” Both siblings turned to him in surprise, and Forsyth faltered.

“O-only, if all is well, then we should really be on our way,” he continued. “We do need to get back to the capital, so...”

“You plan to continue your travels?” Luthier said, argument with his sister forgotten. “You've only a few hours of daylight left. Are you certain you want to be out on the road after the sun's set? You're welcome to stay the night with us – our village isn't far from here. It's the least we can do to thank you.”

“No, that's really not-”

“Sounds good to me,” Python said. He didn't know how to interpret the look Forsyth sent him then, something between annoyance and worry, but it must not have been all that important to him because he kept his mouth shut.

“Wonderful,” Luthier said. He turned to his sister. “We'll be happy to show you the way back. Delthea, would you...?”

“They're your guests, not mine,” Delthea said with a shrug, and then she skipped off the way they'd come, back toward the main road.

“Delthea!” Luthier yelled. When she ignored him, he sighed. “I apologize on her behalf. She has such atrocious manners at times – _I'm_ grateful to you, in any case. Now then, if you'll follow me...”

He led them back to the main road, and then right over it and back through the forest. Python was just starting to wonder if the guy had been playing them the whole time when they broke through a patch of trees into a huge clearing and he found himself standing behind a row of cottages. A few steps more and the entire village was in sight, wooden houses, gardens, wells, the works. Even with the smoke rising from the chimneys, none of it had been visible from the main road.

“This place isn't located on any maps,” Forsyth said as Luthier led them through the village.

“We prefer to keep to ourselves,” Luthier said. He stopped in front of one of the nicer houses – small, but then, they all were – and invited them inside. The girl from before was sitting at a table by the entry, and she grinned when she saw them.

“Took you long enough,” Delthea said. She jerked a thumb to an open room behind them. “I got bored of waiting, so I already set out all the blankets and stuff for these guys. You can thank me whenever.”

“Ah, well...yes, thank you,” Luthier said, looking at the kid like she'd grown an extra head. Going by the confusion in his voice, he wasn't used to favors from his sister. “Although, for future reference, I believe most people would consider the request for thanks unnecessary, and perhaps even a bit crude.”

Delthea looked to Python and Forsyth and rolled her eyes.

“Can you believe this guy?” she said. “Y'know, I try with him, but sometimes, I swear...”

“Delthea! That's quite enough!” Before he could get going on another rant (which Python was starting to suspect was just going to be a thing with these two), Delthea hopped out of her seat and took off up a flight of stairs. Luthier watched her go, and then he sighed and turned back to the two of them.

“Anyway, please make yourselves at home, and let me know if there's anything you need.”

He showed them to the next room over and then excused himself for the night, leaving the two of them alone in front of the fireplace. Even though he'd hesitated to accept the invitation to stay, Forsyth didn't waste any time laying out his bedroll and passing out. And after spending basically a week straight just walking, Python didn't have any trouble doing the same.

* * *

He woke to sometime later to a hand shaking his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to swat it away – which turned out to be a good call, because the hand didn't belong to Forsyth (and Forsyth's wake-up calls usually involved a lot more shouting, anyway). Instead, he found himself blinking groggily at Delthea, crouched down before his bedroll with a sympathetic look on her face.

“Listen, I'd let you sleep in, but your friend over there says it's time to get up,” she said.

“Of course he does,” Python muttered. The girl smiled brightly, and as he sat up he saw her skipping back to the table near the front door. Forsyth was sitting there as well, picking away at a plate of something or other, and Python figured their hosts had been gracious enough to offer him breakfast. After a long stretch, Python joined them there, and he found a plate had been set out for him, too.

“Thanks,” he said, ignoring the proud look on Forsyth's face – apparently he was just that pleased to see a show of manners from him.

“Oh, I didn't make it,” Delthea said. “That was all Luthier. He's a homebody, that one.” She sighed. “I just don't know where our parents went wrong.”

In spite of himself, Python found he kind of liked the kid. She had personality, that was for sure.

“Where is your brother, anyway?” he asked.

Delthea shrugged. “Out doing Lu things, I guess. Checking on his feline friends? I dunno. He should be back soon.”

She wasn't wrong, and it was only a few minutes later the front door opened. Luthier rushed in and slammed it closed behind him, an irritated look on his face. He caught sight of them at the table and shuffled awkwardly.

“Ah, if you're planning your departure, you may wish to wait a short while,” he said. “Or at the very least, allow me to escort you out discreetly.” He shot an accusatory glance at Delthea. “The other villagers seem to have caught wind of the soldiers in our midst.”

“Hey, wasn't me,” she said with a shrug. Luthier glared at her a moment longer, which didn't seem to bother her in the slightest, and then he sighed.

“I suppose it doesn't matter either way. In any case, they've some manner of request for the two of you. I don't know what it is, exactly, but if you're looking to avoid the attention, I can show you the long way out of the village-”

“They need help with something?” Forsyth said, eyes gone big and shiny. Python likened his change in demeanor to a dog perking its ears up in anticipation, and he knew it didn't matter _what_ the problem was: Forsyth had already set his mind to fixing it.

“Well, yes,” Luthier said, “but I really have no idea what about. You don't need to trouble yourself-”

“We're soldiers of Zofia,” Forsyth said proudly. “If the people of Zofia are in need, we're honor-bound to answer that call!”

“He's been kind of bored lately,” Python stage-whispered, earning him a kick to the shin under the table.

“That's not what this is at all,” Forsyth assured Luthier. “Honestly, we're happy to help.”

“Well, if you're certain,” Luthier said cautiously, like he thought they might take it back the second he agreed. He had the look of someone used to disappointment, Python noted with dry amusement. “Whenever it suits you, I can introduce you to our chief. He's the man you'll want to speak with to acquire the details.”

Forsyth jumped up from his seat and clenched his fist.

“We can go now,” he said. “After all, the sooner, the better, isn't that right?”

Python looked down at his plate, only half-eaten, and then up to Forsyth, who was grinning like an idiot. He sighed and put down his fork. Luthier and Forsyth were already halfway out the door by the time he stood up.

“I'll finish it for you,” Delthea said sweetly.

“Make it count,” he told her, and then he made his way out into the sun to join Luthier and Forsyth.

They didn't make it as far as the village square before its denizens were out in full force, near to forming a mob in their excitement. The villagers kept their distance, though, whispering loudly but making no move to actually approach, and Luthier brushed by them, staring at his feet the whole while.

“As I said, they've been made aware,” he muttered.

Python usually considered himself an easy-to-approach kind of guy, and he would have thought it especially pertinent around people like this, but he flinched under the scrutiny of the villagers' gazes. There was something mistrusting in their eyes, and he wasn't used to a look like that coming from what he thought of as his own kind of people. These people wanted something from the two of them, sure, but he got the feeling _they_ trusted him about as much as _he_ trusted the blue-bloods in the capital.

“Little jumpy, ain't they?” Python whispered to Forsyth.

“I'd noticed that, yes,” Forsyth replied uncomfortably.

It was a relief to be ushered into the chief's home, at least to get away from those prying eyes. Then Luthier called out for the chief, and an old man hobbled into the room, face about as friendly as the folks outside. He was little old man, not all that different from the last village leader they'd met down south. Not much different from the one they'd left behind in their hometown all those years ago, either, now Python thought of it.

“So you managed to bring them here, did you?” the chief said.

“They offered their assistance independently,” Luthier said.

“Is that so?”

“Sure is,” Python said, getting annoyed with all the pussyfooting around the issue. A halfwit could see there was something off here, but as long as he thought there was some way he could help, Forsyth wouldn't walk away. That meant Python had to take it upon himself to keep things moving along.

“Are you in some sort of hurry?” the chief said with a frown.

“Not at all,” Forsyth said quickly, a nervous smile on his face. “We're here to help, after all!”

The old man favored him with one of the most unimpressed looks Python had ever seen, but Forsyth barely flinched.

“Very well,” the chief said. “I called you here for a reason, anyway. You see, we're a small, peaceful village. We're not fighters; we never have been. We've never needed to be, insulated as we are. But things have changed since the Rigelians have gone.”

Luthier frowned. “You're talking about-”

“There's a shrine west of here, the Sylvan Shrine,” the chief continued, cutting Luthier off. “There's said to be treasures hidden away there, from ages past. Valuable things. ”

“You'd like us to retrieve them?” Forsyth said.

“We'd send our own men, but the roads aren't entirely safe these days. And there have been rumors- Well, never mind that. It's nothing of concern to armed soldiers.”

“Then please count on us,” Forsyth said.

“You'll do it then?” the chief asked.

“Of course. Just tell us where to go!”

“I can lead you there,” Luthier said. “It's probably best that I accompany you-”

“Absolutely not,” the chief said sternly. Luthier looked away, Forsyth coughed awkwardly, and Python shrugged. The roads had been clear coming and going, but if the fear was for bandits, Luthier didn't exactly look the fighting type; he doubted they were missing much by leaving him behind.

“Appreciate it, but we got it covered,” Python said. “So where's this place at?”

* * *

Not far off was the answer to that, though it involved a lot of cutting through thickets of same-looking woods. They got turned around so much, Python was starting to think they should have sneaked Luthier out of the village and let him tag along, just to keep them from getting lost.

But they did find the shrine eventually, mostly because it was hard to miss the great stone gate that formed its entrance. Other than that, it didn't look like much from the outside: just a small, weathered, gray-walled keep. He didn't get the notion there was more to it than that until they actually stepped inside, and he saw the first set of stairs leading downward. And then the next. And the next.

They were heading far underground, and that came with it a musty thickness to the air that set Python coughing. It was dark and damp, and they had to hedge past areas in the steps where they'd begun to crumble. Python could have said right then that something was off, but Forsyth showed no sign of stopping.

At the foot of the final staircase, they turned the corner at the landing and ended up at a barred metal gate, a rusty lock hanging open around its handle. There was no telling how long it'd been like that or whether anyone had been through here recently. It didn't much matter – the real question was whether the gate was supposed to keep trespassers out, or something else in.

“The hell kind of shrine is this?” Python said.

“Does it matter?” Forsyth said, pushing open the gate.

He stepped through and beckoned Python to follow. Inside the open chamber, there was moss growing on the walls and spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling, but that was nothing compared to the cell doors lining each wall.

“This ain't a shrine, it's a prison,” Python pointed out, and Forsyth frowned.

“Never mind that,” he said. “We'll just get what we came for and get out.”

“We don't even _know_ what we're here for.”

“But I'm sure we'll recognize it when we see it!”

As they walked down the hallway, Python looked around and grimaced. There were burlap sacks hanging down all over the cells, stained dark at the bottom. It didn't leave a lot of question as to what they'd been holding. They kept their distance, but Forsyth couldn't seem to stop staring.

“Do you suppose-” he began, and then he stopped himself. “Let's just hurry on, shall we?”

“No complaints here,” Python muttered.

Every little sound was amplified in the open corridor, and their hurried footsteps were no exception. At the least, it assured Python they were the only ones down here – the noise would've drawn out anyone else. No, it seemed like the only things down here were the two of them, the blood-stained gunnysacks, and a spattering of creepy statues he tried very hard to ignore.

Half an hour and no treasure later, that was _still_ all they could find. They'd scoured the halls, gone as far back as the chamber with the Mila statue (which Python still didn't think constituted calling the place a shrine), and even then, they hadn't stumbled across anything of value.

“I think maybe it's time to call it a day,” Python said. “The old man is off his rocker – we looked everywhere, and there's nothing here. “

“We haven't looked _everywhere_ ,” Forsyth said. He shot a nervous glance off in the direction of the cells.

“You wanna go in _there_?”

“The village needs our help!”

It wasn't as convincing an argument as the determination in his voice, and the latter was really all Python needed to understand that Forsyth was going on ahead, with or without him. And as little as he cared for dancing around corpses, he couldn't really see the harm in it. So he followed Forsyth through the cell doors, which weren't locked any more securely than the gate at the entrance.

As they wandered closer to the bloody bags, he thought perhaps there would be some sort of stench, or a visual cue he'd missed from further away. Something to indicate the severity of what they'd stumbled upon, at least. But the gunnysacks were easy enough to ignore, though he had to duck under a few of the lower-hanging ones, and he jumped when he accidentally brushed up against another.

Still, there wasn't much else to see in the cells. Not until they reached one of the last ones, and Forsyth stopped suddenly and marched over to the far wall.

“There are cracks in the stone,” he said. He leaned in, peering through one of the cracks, and then stepped back with a triumphant grin. “There's something back there!”

“Great. And how d'you suppose we _get_ back there?” Python said.

Forsyth stared at him, then at the wall. He took a few steps back, considering.

And then, with no warning, he ran at the wall – threw his entire body at it – and Python watched with growing horror as the stones crumbled and he went careening through the opening he'd created. Python wasn't far behind, nearly tripping on the fallen stones as he sprinted through the hole.

“Forsyth!”

“That...didn't go quite as planned,” Forsyth muttered from the place on the ground where he'd fallen. He stood up, rubbing at his shoulder, otherwise looking right as rain. He even had the gall to laugh when he saw Python's face.

“You have a death wish?” Python said, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, come now, it was hardly as serious as all that! Although I only meant to nudge a few bricks loose, not take down the entire wall.” He paused. “It looked more stable than that.”

 _I could say the same thing about you,_ Python thought, but he settled for shaking his head.

Looking around, he could see Forsyth had been right, though. There was a clear passage back here, different from the neatly built stone walls of the prison but still obviously carved by human hands. And at the end was another staircase, leading to yet another stone room and metal-barred gate. In the center of the room stood a stone monument, worn writing scratched into its face.

Forsyth walked up to it and tilted his head.

“Seekers of treasure: come no further unless you possess power,” he read.

“Well, we got a bow and a lance,” Python quipped. “Think that counts?”

“I suppose it will have to,” Forsyth said. He pushed past the gate and into the chamber beyond.

Python wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the room they walked into wasn't any different from the rest of the shrine. It was just another open chamber lined with prison cells and bodybags, and even more of those statues. Statues locked inside the cells, even, which was somehow creepier than the ones that'd just been left guarding the empty halls.

Forsyth didn't pay them any mind, practically skipping through the hall to an alcove at the back. There was a treasure chest there – an actual treasure chest, subtlety be damned – and he grinned when he saw it.

“This must be what we're looking for,” he said. “You see, Python? It's just as I said: we'll know it when we see it!”

He hurried up the steps into the alcove and Python followed, casting another curious glance around the room. Still wearing that confident smile, Forsyth waltzed up to the chest and opened it-

And the second the lid popped open, a much louder click reverberated throughout the chamber, followed by the sound of creaking hinges. The cell doors, that much was obvious, but Python couldn't think of any reason they'd be rigged to open with the chest. At the sound of it, Forsyth turned around and stepped out of the alcove, frowning.

When he turned around again, his eyes were wide, and he pointed at the chest.

“Grab whatever's in there and get ready to run!” he shouted.

“What are you-” Python started, and then he heard the first roar.

He didn't waste any time, running back to the still-open chest. Inside was a heavy sack of gold coins and a few dull-looking trinkets, goblets and necklaces and the like. Python swept them all into the bag and then swung it around his free shoulder, reaching back for the quiver slung around the other. By the time he was down the steps, he had an arrow nocked, ready to aim for whatever had caused the noise.

He didn't get the chance to shoot – as soon as his feet hit the ground floor, Forsyth was pushing at his back, yelling at him to move. He did, ducking to the right just in time to avoid a sharp claw across his neck, and he looked back to see a hulking monster hovering just above the ground, leathery wings rending the air.

Gargoyles, his mind supplied, and suddenly those creepy statues littering the place made a lot more sense. But he didn't have much time to think, because Forsyth was pushing at his back again, and he was more than happy to comply with the unspoken order.

They rushed to the exit, more of the things closing in on all sides, and they barely made it through before they were surrounded. Then it was another mad dash past the stone tablet and into the worn hallway. Their pace was slowed when they got to the crumbling wall, having to tiptoe around the fallen stones. In the time it took them to pass through it, one of the gargoyles had caught up – and it didn't bother watching its step.

It crashed through the wall (making a rather more impressive impact than Forsyth), and the two of them fell back to the hanging gunnysacks to escape the flying debris. It kicked up dust and by the time that had cleared, the thing was lunging forward in attack.

Forsyth was quick enough to block its claw with his lance, but the force of it still pushed him back and set him stumbling. Nearly into Python, in fact, stopping just short and not quite out of the thing's reach. It raised it claw again, at the same time Python raised his bow.

“Duck!” he shouted, and Forsyth hit the ground. Python fired off an arrow and it tore right through the thing's wing. It barely faltered in its flight, but it set it off-balance enough that the swipe of its claw missed its intended target. The split second it took to right itself was all the two of them needed to turn around and force their way through the cell and back into the main hall.

“Door, door!” Python yelled as soon as they were through. Forsyth got the message, slamming the cell door shut right as the thing barreled into it, but it held long enough for him to knock the rusted latch into the place. Rusted or not, the lock didn't break as the gargoyle threw itself into the door, screeching like a banshee. Forsyth stepped back, breathing heavy, and leaned over to catch his breath.

“That was...something else,” he panted.

Python snorted and opened his mouth to reply-

Only to be cut off by another screeching sound coming from the left of the hallway. Right, he recalled, there'd been statues in the halls earlier, too. He looked in that direction and saw another pair of gargoyles zipping their way, lances in hand.

_“Oh, come on.”_

Fighting the things wasn't an option. For one, if they hadn't been able to dent the smaller ones, Python didn't want to imagine the trouble they'd have with the bigger versions swinging around forged steel. For another, one of those smaller ones was still trying to bust down the door they'd locked it behind, and he wasn't sure how long the lock would hold. Judging by the look on Forsyth's face, he'd come to the same conclusion.

So they ran like hell for the exit, past the thankfully empty cells, jumping over cracks in the floor and fallen stone. They reached the gate by the stairs and Forsyth swung it shut as soon as Python was through, clicked the lock, and kept running, not bothering to see if it would actually hold.

Then it was up the stairs – a really, truly offensive number of stairs, Python decided – one after another without a glance back until they were in the light of day again, and the only noise was the chirping of birds in the surrounding forest.

Standing outside the stone hall of the shrine, Forsyth froze, head turned toward the entrance. He walked back and poked his head inside, waited a moment, and then turned and gave the all-clear. Either the gargoyles hadn't managed to break the lock or they just had no interest in seeing the sunlight, but Python wasn't about to complain. Not to Forsyth anyway – though he had a few choice words for the village chief.

“Did you get the treasure?” Forsyth said.

“That's what you want to know?” Python said. Before Forsyth could answer, he sighed and held out the bag of coins and assorted useless junk. “Yea, yea, I got it. You happy?”

Forsyth's only answer was to smile brightly, and Python could tell he'd already put the whole ordeal out of his mind. That made one of them, anyway.

* * *

Even though he'd spent most of the walk back to the village stewing, Python was almost ready to admit the mess had been worth it just for the satisfied look on Forsyth's face when they got there and found themselves met with a completely different atmosphere than the one they'd left with. As soon as they unloaded their haul at the chief's house, whatever reservations had earned them the dirty glares before evaporated. Forget the suspicious eyes; they were everyone's best friend now.

Python wasn't sure which version of the place he preferred – before, it was like they looked at him the way he looked at high-borns; now, they looked at him the way _Forsyth_ looked at high-borns. (He was starting to think maybe the two of them needed to find a middle ground.)

Either way, the chief was no exception to their newfound celebrity. He looked close to tears when he saw them, and Python suspected it had less to do with their safe return and more to do with the junk they'd brought back with them.

“Oh, thank goodness,” the chief said, sifting through the trinkets they'd hauled in. “You've no idea how you've helped our village! Now we'll be able to pay off the bandits!”

“Say what now,” Python said.

“They've been harassing us for years, even before the Rigelians. But since the soldiers have gone, they've gotten bolder, demanding more than ever before. With this, we've enough to pay them off for at least another season or so, until the knights return to scare them off again!”

“You sent us out there to find you a bribe?” Python said, dumbfounded. “You sent us into a nest of gargoyles so you could pay off _bandits_?”

“Is...that a problem?” the chief said. “It's not as if you were stealing anything. Is there some sort of conflict-”

“We're soldiers,” Python groaned. “ _Soldiers._ Fighting bad guys is kind of our thing! More'n mucking around in some terror-infested prison-shrine!”

“Well, yes, but-”

“What Python is _trying_ to say,” Forsyth cut in with a pointed glare, “is that we would be glad to assist you, if you've need of it. We're no strangers to a fight, and we're well-trained at that. Surely that would be a better, more permanent solution to your bandit troubles?”

“You mean to take on an entire gang of raiders, just the two of you?” the chief said skeptically. “There are dozens of them, armed to the teeth, just as much as you. And they've been around these parts long enough that _they're_ no strangers to a fight, either.”

“We can call in reinforcements-”

“Within the next few days or so? No, I think not.”

“We can train your men, then,” Forsyth said, looking much more confident than he had any right to be. They hadn't been around the village much, but Python thought the chief's assessment – that they weren't fighters – was probably a generous one. More like, not a single one of the men looked as if he'd so much as watched a fight before, let alone got tangled up in one.

The chief must have seen it, too, because he let out a startled laugh.

“Are you mad?” he said. “We've got all we need to pay them off now. Why would we incite them? Perhaps when the knights are back...”

There returned Forsyth's kicked puppy look, shoulders drooping and that exaggerated look of disappointment on his face. But he didn't push the point, just let it drop and bid the man good luck and all those inane pleasantries he obviously wasn't feeling.

“So what now?” Python asked as they left the chief's house. “Looks like we've done all we can here. Ready to hit the road?”

Forsyth looked up at the sky and frowned, then hummed.

“Not yet,” he said, and if Python weren't so surprised, he might've taken a second to appreciate delaying the long walk back to the castle. As it were, he was more caught up in immediate suspicion, because Forsyth wasn't the type to put off anything, let alone his work.

“What's the catch?”

“There's no catch,” Forsyth said with a sigh, like he was disappointed at Python's cynicism. “I'd like to wait until the exchange with the bandits is made, however. Just in case.”

“Right. Just in case.”

Python couldn't guess at his angle there, whether he was aching for a fight or tripping over “what-ifs” in his mind, but he didn't see the harm in letting him be. Whatever was bugging him, Forsyth was quiet the rest of the way back to Luthier's.

When they got to the little cottage, Luthier was the one to answer the door.

“Oh, you're back,” he said, looking slightly surprised for it. “And in one piece, too! Well done.”

“You _all_ knew about the gargoyles,” Python accused.

“Well, I suspected,” Luthier admitted. “We've all heard the stories here. That's why I thought to offer my own assistance, before the chief turned me down.”

It was probably a good thing Forsyth chose that moment to start talking again, because Python didn't really have an inoffensive response to the suggestion that the presence of one skinny bookworm might have helped against an army of gargoyles.

“It was nothing we couldn't handle,” Forsyth said, really overselling their abilities. “But anyway, would it trouble you much to let us stay here a few days longer before we head back to the castle?”

“Not at all,” Luthier replied. “Might I ask what brought this on, though? You seemed in a hurry before to return to your travels.”

Forsyth fed him the same line about sticking it out until the deal with the bandits was made, and if Luthier was confused any, he kept it to himself. If anything, he seemed a little _too_ happy about having a couple of strangers camp out on his kitchen floor for a few days. (Benefits of a small town, Python supposed – there was no love lost for outsiders, but once you proved yourself, all suspicion just fell away.)

Python was plenty confused, but none of his badgering could get Forsyth to say any more.

* * *

Two days later, the bandits arrived, and Python still had no idea what Forsyth was waiting for, but he dragged him out to the square to watch the deal go down.

It was an unsurprisingly tense affair, watching five lumbering idiots staring down one little old man, small burlap sack of goodies clasped weakly in his fingers. He held it out, and one of the bandits snatched it and rifled through it. When he was done, he tied the sack again, threw it over his shoulder, and sneered.

“Not enough,” he declared.

“It's at least as much as we gave you last time!” the chief cried.

“Rates have gone up.”

“This is all we have!”

“You'd better hope that's not true,” the bandit said. “But we're good people, so we'll give you a little time to think it over. We'll be back in a week, and if you haven't scrounged up a decent tribute by then...”

The men behind him made a big show of flexing their muscles, their ugly mugs contorted in what were probably supposed to be threatening looks, though it came off more like indigestion, in Python's opinion. The villagers must have thought otherwise, because they all jumped back at it; and that fear made him think the threats weren't empty, that they'd followed through on them before.

Long after the bandits had gone and everyone else had dispersed back to their own homes, the two of them and the chief were the only ones left in the square. It was Forsyth who approached him – Python felt bad for him, sure, but he didn't think talking it out would be much help in this situation. But when Forsyth went to him, Python followed out of habit.

“Will you be able to meet their demands?” Forsyth asked.

The chief looked up, startled, and he frowned.

“Do we have a small mountain of gold hidden away somewhere, you mean?” he muttered. “No, of course not. Even if we were to scrounge up every last valuable we had, it wouldn't be enough. Or if it were, they'd still kill a few of our men, take a few of our women, just as a show of power. They've done it before.”

“Our offer still stands,” Forsyth said. “We can fortify the village and train the men to defend it.”

“In a week?” the chief said incredulously. Forsyth nodded, and the chief shook his head and sighed. “We don't really have a choice at this point, do we? Fine, then. What do you suggest?”

“Give us the rest of the day to formulate a plan and get back to you.”

“We don't really have a choice,” the chief repeated. He walked away, expression blank, leaving the two of them alone in the square. After a moment, Forsyth turned and headed back toward Luthier's. Python wasn't far behind, trying to wrap his head around the task he'd just been set to without warning and coming up blank.

“Not for nothing, but I'm with the old man on this one,” he said. “You really think we can build a militia from the ground up in a week?”

“Yes!” Forsyth said. “Er, that is, probably. I think. It's a better choice than the alternative, anyway!”

“Did you think this through at all?” Python groaned.

“It's the right thing to do!”

“That's not an answer!”

Forsyth paused, eyes narrowed, and then he shook his head.

“I'm certain we can do it,” he said. “And in any case, we'll find out for sure in a week, won't we?”

“See, you missed your calling,” Python said. “You're always going on about being a knight, but you should have been a strategist. That's a real cunning plan you're working off, there.” Although he _had_ already predicted one thing Python hadn't: the deal with the bandits going sour in the first place.

“How'd you see that coming, anyway?” he asked.

“Hm?” Forsyth looked confused, and it took him a minute to understand the question. “Oh! You mean the bandits making more demands? No, I had no idea that would happen. I just thought it would be careless to leave before we were certain the situation had resolved itself.” He grinned. “And it's a good thing, too! Now we have the opportunity to rout the brigands permanently!”

“An opportunity. Right.” Forsyth was probably the only person he knew who could look at it like that. Python sighed. “Well, not like we got a lotta options here now. Where do we start with this thing?”

* * *

The place to start, it turned out, was sending word to the capital. Python wasn't quite sure what that was meant to accomplish; it wasn't like the message could arrive and the order be approved quick enough to make any difference, but Forsyth seemed to think it necessary.

With that out of the way, the real work began, and step one was to gather information. They started with the enemy, and it wasn't hard to get what they needed from the villagers, who still looked at the two of them with stars in their eyes. Word traveled fast, and the locals were already convinced the soldiers from Zofia were Mila's answer to their prayers. Python hoped Mila had better taste than that – because if it were true, the mother goddess had one twisted sense of humor – but it did help their search.

They quickly learned that the bandit group was camped out some leagues east of the village (no one was exactly sure where), and while they'd been around for years, they were a comparatively smaller group – no more than fifty or so men. That was the first piece of good news, it turned out; the village was big enough that its defenses could match them man for man. Forsyth went out looking for eligible recruits soon after, and he was downright chipper when he returned with his count.

“We're looking at at least thirty men and about a dozen women,” he told Python. “There are a handful of children who've volunteered as well, but I'd rather not involve them if we can help it – and I think we can.”

Most of their volunteers were farmers, or others used to hard labor. They had plenty of strength and next to no skill, but it wasn't like they'd be fighting organized duels. Fact was, they'd be getting about as much training as any soldier did back before Desaix: not nearly enough, but most of them would get by.

The issue was more with weapons. The village had a blacksmith, but no real weapons stockpile. Armor was basically a nonstarter. Ideally, the untrained men would have swords, because it was hard to go wrong with a broadsword: you swung the sharp end at the enemy and tried not to get hit yourself. The axes weren't so clean, but at least some of the men had used those before. Spears were a bit trickier, trying to figure out the right distance and balance the weight, but the basic concept was still the same: stick the bad guys with the pointy part. Thanks to a shortage of options, Forsyth was stuck training men with all three.

And then there were the bows, and when Forsyth threw eight potential archers at him with orders to train, Python had to laugh, because it quickly became clear that they were the most battle-ready of all. The archers weren't picking up a new weapon for the first time – they were hunters, at least as good with a bow as Python had been when he'd first joined up as a soldier, and it showed. They didn't need to learn how to shoot or even refine their aim: they just needed to be ready to aim at a human target. Python figured that was usually easier said than done, but he recognized the furious look in the villagers' eyes when the bandits were brought up; he didn't think they'd have a problem.

The last order of business was fortifying the village, and the lack of oversight necessary with the archers meant Python found himself with a lot of free time. That had never been a problem for him before, much as enjoyed a little relaxation, but he somehow found himself dragged into the work building rickety barricades and towers along the existing fence (which was in shambles anyway).

It wasn't anything he meant to do. In spite of – or possibly because of – his old man's insistent teaching, Python had never developed a taste for carpentry. He was competent enough - had to be, for all those years of training - but it wasn't something he enjoyed. All the same, he had enough sense to recognize proper defenses could make or break this plan, and the more hands on deck, the better. Still, he had to laugh – it figured if those long-unused skills were ever going to come into play again, it'd be Forsyth's fault somehow. 

The week passed by fast, and in the end, they had the numbers, the weapons, and the defenses. But exactly two people on their side had the experience, compared to thirty men who'd made a living out of fighting.

“You really think this is gonna work?” Python asked Forsyth the morning the bandits were set to return.

“Have a little faith, Python!” Forsyth said, smiling confidently. Python wondered if Forsyth was seeing something he missed, because he didn't see how faith would help the situation any. But it was too late to back out now, and if the only way was forward, he'd do what he could to make sure the both of them made it through.

It was only a few hours later the scout (maybe it wasn't fair to call him that; they'd pretty much just grabbed the fastest kid they could find and set him loose on the road) returned with the first sighting of the bandits. There were maybe a couple dozen of them, he said, less than an hour from the village. So they hadn't brought the whole crew, just enough to make good on their threats if it came to that. That could be a plus, if they were dumb enough to keep fighting after the first shots had been fired. If they had any sense, they'd retreat and call for the rest of their men, but Python was counting on these raiders being about as clever as the rest of their ilk.

As soon as the scout returned, the villagers took up position around the barricades. Most of them followed Forsyth to the front lines, practically shaking in their boots. But they looked to him and steadied somewhat, at least enough for Python to realize they understood what they'd signed on for and intended to follow through.

Maybe that was the thing Forsyth saw, Python mused. This entire time, Python had thought of the villagers as liabilities, but Forsyth had apparently been treating them like comrades. He wasn't sure that was the right way of going about it – not when that kind of bravery meant throwing away their lives – but if it got enough of them through the fight, he couldn't say it was wrong, either.

He took his own place by the archers, and managed to rein in a startled laugh when he realized they were looking to him the same way the front-liners looked to Forsyth. There was something wrong about it, near to idolatry – like they thought he was on some other level from them, unapproachable, and he'd never styled himself to be that. And they were too stiff. So he made a show of yawning and rolling his shoulders, too casual for this situation but that was his aim.

“You ready? Eyes open, and don't lose your heads,” he told them. “Sooner we get this over with, sooner we can all get back to our regular, boring lives. Sound good?”

He got a few relieved laughs and determined grunts, but they all relaxed a little, and that was enough for him. They really shouldn't have had to worry much; unless something went horribly wrong, the fighting wouldn't reach the rear where they were stationed.

He almost started to get complacent then, until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and turned to see a new pair running up to the line.

Right before the outbreak of a battle was not the time he wanted to see Delthea and Luthier showing up at the barricades, the former scowling and the latter looking all kinds of eager.

“I heard the fighting will start soon – where would you like me?” Luthier asked, with an awful lot of confidence for a guy running around unarmed and in flimsy robes.

“Somewhere you're not gonna get skewered on the wrong end of a lance?” Python suggested. “We're trying to help you out, not get you killed. If you can't fight, keep out of sight.”

“If I can't fight...?” Luthier frowned, and Delthea sighed.

“You totally forgot to tell them,” she said.

“It...may have slipped my mind, in all the confusion.”

“Hopeless,” Delthea said, rolling her eyes. Hands on her hips, she looked up to Python and grinned. “Just so you know, we're kind of a big deal around here. We're descended from Valentia's strongest mage – they built a whole village just to keep our family safe, that's how important we are. _You_ don't need to worry about us; the _bad guys_ are the ones who need to worry about us.”

“Uh-huh,” Python said skeptically.

“She's being a little crass, but she's not wrong,” Luthier said. “We're both talented mages, Delthea especially. We can be of help to you.”

“Then stay back here with the archers and keep an eye out,” Python said, not really sure what else to suggest. He wasn't about to send them up to the front lines, but he didn't fancy sending them home, either – he didn't trust they'd actually listen, for one. He figured it was safest to keep them in sight, in an area unlikely to be hit directly anyway.

The two of them nodded and rushed to the back, and Python more or less forgot about them in anticipation of the fight.

He didn't have to wait long. Soon enough, one of the archers on the watchtowers called down that the bandits were in sight. Python climbed up and took his own place along the wall; he was the one who gave the first order to fire. (It was almost disgusting, he thought, how easy he took to giving orders. Lukas would be proud; Forsyth would probably never let him hear the end of it.)

The first volley didn't catch the raiders entirely off-guard; by that point they were close enough to have realized the village wasn't as defenseless as they'd left it. Enough of them had raised shields, or were spaced far enough out, that only one or two actually fell. Their allies kept on moving, faster now, undeterred – but their haste made them sloppier, too. Easy to predict, and easy to target.

Python managed to order two more volleys before the bandits actually reached the front lines, knocking down a fair few men before the battle started in earnest. Then he watched as the two small forces clashed at the village gates, in a scene that was somehow pathetic and impressive at once. The villagers held the line well enough under Forsyth's command, and Python continued to shout orders to the archers without really thinking about it.

Even a small skirmish in the Deliverance tended to be bigger than this, but the villagers fought with a ferocity Python had never seen in a battlefield soldier. These folk weren't fighting for glory or money or the motherland – they were fighting for their homes, and nothing more complicated than that. When Python looked at the battle through the eyes of someone who'd seen _real_ warfare, it seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things. When he looked at the villagers, though – when he saw it through the eyes of people defending everything they'd ever known...well, maybe there was something to that.

All the same, as battles went, it was a pretty dull one, for his mind to go wandering like that. Now he'd seen the bandits in full force, they really weren't much to look at. The only advantage they had over the ones he and Forsyth had seen in the south was that these ones had better numbers; their tactics were about as polished.

At least, that was his thought until he heard a shout to his left and realized he maybe hadn't given them enough credit: a group of bandits had somehow broken off the main line and skirted their way around the village to bust in through the east unguarded. They came running in toward the archers now, and Python swore as he realized his men wouldn't be quick or accurate enough to take them down before they were reached.

So he issued the order to fall back even as he lined up his own shot and loosed an arrow that took one of them down. The rest of the archers tried and mostly failed to do the same as they were pushed back against the infantry, hampered by the close quarters.

Still, the group that'd broken in was a small one, and they'd taken most of them down when one of them managed to break through the line, rush up to an archer and raise his axe– 

Only to collapse under a heap of light, some magic the likes of which Python had never seen before. He turned to find Delthea standing with her arms outstretched, in the sloppy but familiar stance of a mage mid-battle. Without missing a beat, she turned and did the same to another bandit, her brother mimicking the action not far away. He couldn't help but whistle in appreciation.

“You know, you've got talent, kid,” he said. Delthea relaxed her posture and grinned, flashed him a thumbs-up.

“You're not so bad yourself,” she said.

Much as he preferred the casual small-talk, he didn't hesitate to turn away and focus again on the battle. He got his archers back to their original position and they returned to firing away from behind the cover of the front lines – keeping an eye out this time for any more incursions from the east or west.

But none came, and very shortly, the battle was over, with the villagers the clear victor. When all was said and done, it looked like they'd lost fewer men than Python expected, and he had to admit he was impressed. He congratulated what he'd (disturbingly) started to think of as his men and set off to find Forsyth.

He found him by the village gates with the others, arranging the dead with a troubled look on his face. Python was worried until he heard the final count from one of the villagers: four men. That was all they'd lost, in a battle against some thirty or so bandits.

Which was probably four too many for Forsyth, he realized.

“Come on, don't be like that,” Python said, walking up to clap him on the back. “Look, if these people weren't head over heels for you before, they sure as hell are now. They knew what they were getting into, and four lives for an entire village ain't a bad deal.”

Forsyth shifted uncomfortably, expression all twisted like he wasn't sure what to say, and then he sighed.

“I know that,” he said. “It doesn't mean they shouldn't be mourned.”

“No,” Python agreed, “it doesn't. But it might be best to save that for later. Right now, we should probably let the old man know what happened.”

“Oh! That's right, the chief,” Forsyth said, brightening somewhat.

Of course, by the time they got to him, he'd heard more or less the whole of it from the villagers, and the chief had barely caught sight of them before he was outright singing their praises. At this point, Python was able to filter out and ignore most of it, but Forsyth still stammered, blushed, and protested like a damned girl. Python snorted and laughed openly at the bizarre exchange, the old man throwing out honeyed words and Forsyth insisting it really wasn't as great as all that – no, really, it wasn't!

For whatever reason, knowing he was being laughed at tended to make Forsyth _less_ self-conscious, not more, and it worked out like that today, too. He paused in his flustered speech, turned to Python, and rolled his eyes. When he spoke again, it was more level.

“You shouldn't relax just yet,” he told the chief. “What we faced today wasn't their entire force, though it must have been a large portion of it. There's a chance they'll attack again; you'll want to keep a guard out at all hours in case of that.”

“Right, right,” the chief said. “We'll be sure to do that. But still, just for what you've done already, we really can't thank you enough.”

“You don't need to thank us,” Forsyth said. “We're soldiers of Zofia: this is what we're meant to do.”

And he could protest and offer all the excuses he wanted, but Python suspected he liked to hear the thanks all the same.

* * *

The bandits did come back once, two days later and in smaller numbers, but that battle was an even duller affair than the first. The village didn't lose a single man that day, and it was clear they wouldn't have to face another attack.

Python and Forsyth only stayed a few days longer than that, until the small group of reinforcements from the capital arrived – at which point Forsyth finally got around to explaining why he'd called them in the first place. Python's jabs about strategy had really only been that – casual teasing – but it turned out Forsyth had thought things through further than he'd expected. Now that the village had fought back, it stood to reason they could be targeted again, and until the area was officially secured by the knights, Forsyth didn't want to leave them without a professional guard.

Forsyth _also_ didn't want to stay himself. Now that the immediate work was done, he was back to yammering on about returning to the castle and honoring the responsibilities he'd been granted and all that noise. It was equal parts reassuring and obnoxious, but Python would have been lying if he said it bothered him in the slightest.

With the soldiers all settled and the details worked out, the two of them had packed their bags that morning and set to leave. First, of course, Forsyth had to make sure he checked in one last time with the chief, properly thanked their hosts, and, from the looks of it, said his personal goodbyes to every single villager. The whole of Python's goodbyes had taken about two minutes, tops, but Forsyth had never lacked for enthusiasm.

So Python found himself loitering by the village gates, kept company by Delthea, of all people. He had no idea what the kid wanted with him, but she'd seen him standing there and skipped on over, then proceeded to not say a single word. She seemed perfectly content to keep quiet, occasionally humming to herself. 

“So...magic, huh?” Python said, breaking the silence mostly out of boredom. Delthea rolled her eyes and smiled, apparently happy to have gotten some attention.

“That's not _all_ there is to me,” she said with a pout. “Like, I'm pretty great at it, don't get me wrong, but it's not my whole life. Not like it is with Lu: I can't get him to shut up about it! It's just practice, practice, practice, all the time. It's like he doesn't even know what fun is!”

“Take it from someone who knows: a little practice now and then won't kill you.” Python smirked. “Just don't let him know about it – you don't want him thinking he was right or nothing.”

Delthea narrowed her eyes.

“I'll think about it,” she said. “Maybe.”

She talked at him for a while longer, until Forsyth showed up, Luthier in tow. Luthier raised his brow at the sight of Delthea, and he frowned.

“Young lady, I hope you weren't bothering our guest,” he admonished.

“ _You're_ the one who's a bother,” Delthea said, sticking out her tongue before running off.

“What does that even mean?” he called out after her, to no response. He sighed. “Well, then. I suppose the others have already said it enough, but I'd like to add my own thanks to theirs. You truly have done us a service.”

“Happy to help,” Python said, before Forsyth could drag them into another drawn-out goodbye. “We should really be hitting the road, so...”

“Of course. Safe travels, and if you ever find yourselves out this way again, our home is always open to you!”

* * *

They were on the road by noon and back at the castle in a matter of days. It was a good thing, too, going by the chill in the air. Sure enough, about a week later, the first snows of Wyrmstym hit. Though he didn't really have any preference for the castle over the village, Python was grateful enough to have avoided the roads during that.

The season as a whole was quiet. Forsyth retook his post as acting commander without protest (apparently the poor schmuck he'd left behind hadn't taken to it so nicely and was overjoyed to give it up), and Python went back to avoiding drills whenever possible. No further calls for help came in from any area of the country, and Python couldn't tell whether that disappointed Forsyth. He supposed that was a good thing.

The only real change in routine was when they received word that Rigel had been defeated, and then, only days later, some vague news about the gods that Python didn't know how to interpret. In the end, he figured it didn't much affect him anyway. He'd never spared much thought for gods, and if rumor spoke true, now would be a poor time to start.

But the end of the war meant the Deliverance – the real thing, not the skeleton crew at the castle – was returning, with a new ruler in tow. Whether that ruler was a peasant king or a long-lost princess remained to be seen, and much as he preferred not to dwell on it, Python knew the sort of political trouble that could cause. If it came down to it, he knew which side Forsyth would throw his lot in with, so he knew where he'd be fighting, too.

It didn't come down to that, thankfully. Now the truth was, Python hadn't thought much of Alm the first and only time he'd met him, but the kid must have been something else. Not only did he free his homeland, conquer their neighbors to the north, and, of all things, _kill a god_ – oh, no, the kid did all that _and_ he found himself a princess to marry. He was like something out of a sickly-sweet fairytale, and Python was so amused by the whole situation that he forgot to feel much of anything else toward it.

Forsyth was, predictably, through the roof at the news of the army's return. He didn't have it in him to slack off in the first place, but the second he got wind of it, he was suddenly frantic with keeping things in order. During training hours, Python swore he could hear him yelling clear across the castle.

Then, of course, the day came that the army actually arrived, one morning in Flostym. They got word of it before the army reached the castle grounds, and so Python and Forsyth were well-prepared to meet the old host. In the early morning, they found a spot along the wall of the great hall and waited.

They were quiet, something unusually tense about the waiting, maybe because they weren't really sure what to expect. But the anticipation was broken the moment the army burst through the doors, and the retinue of soldiers came marching in those neat little lines he'd almost forgotten about but quickly decided he was still sick of.

There was Alm at the helm, with what must have been the princess at his side. Clive wasn't far behind, along with the rest of the Deliverance. There was an entire host of soldiers Python couldn't place up front, too, and he figured they must have been the princess's entourage, what with how carefully they watched her.

But the ones he recognized, they looked the same. It'd been almost a year, and it was still as easy as ever to spot Lukas in a crowd. Maybe it was the hair, or something in his posture, but whatever it was, it hadn't gone away. This time, Python didn't need to work his way into the formation to get his attention – Lukas caught sight of them along the wall and stepped out on his own.

“I'm glad to find the two of you well,” he said. His smile hadn't changed any, either, as inscrutable as it'd ever been.

“Of course!” Forsyth said, loud as usual. “And you, Lukas? How has the Deliverance fared?”

Lukas glanced to the men still marching by and tilted his head.

“All things considered,” he said, “I'd say we fared remarkably well.”

“Y'know, we were starting to worry,” Python said. “Last message we got had you back here almost two weeks ago. You get lost or something?”

It earned him a swat on the arm from Forsyth, and soft laugh from Lukas.

“There was a slight delay,” Lukas said. “You see, we did stop briefly in a small forest village, at Alm's request. He wished to inquire as to the well-being of a young girl he rescued prior to entering Rigel.” He paused, then smiled. “Imagine our surprise when she couldn't stop talking about the two of _you_. Naturally, Clive was curious about the circumstances of your meeting, and so he had her tell the whole story.”

“We didn't leave the castle unattended!” Forsyth blurted out. “Everything was under control, that's the only reason we felt it safe to-”

“Relax, Forsyth,” Lukas said. “Clive isn't angry with you, nor is Alm. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'd say they were both impressed at the way the two of you defended the village while the Deliverance was...otherwise occupied.”

“Sir Clive was...impressed?” Forsyth repeated hopefully. Python snickered.

“Hey, if they thought _that_ was something, there's another village to the south they might wanna hear about,” he said. “When we left, the elder was damn near ready to knight us himself.”

“Python!” Forsyth yelled, but Lukas only smiled again.

“Perhaps he had the right idea. It's not as outlandish as it sounds: Alm was raised among commoners, and he understands the value of hard work. After the blow to the ranks caused by Desaix's coup, the knighthood will have to be rebuilt. Alm is looking for reliable, capable men to fill the gaps.” Cryptically, he added, “Please understand, your work here hasn't gone unnoticed.”

Forsyth looked like he might faint dead away, and Python smirked.

“Come on, Lukas,” he said. “Keep talking like that, the poor guy's heart'll give out.”

“The words were directed as much at you, Python,” Lukas replied evenly, and Python grimaced. He had plenty to say to that, but most of it would spoil what had otherwise been a fairly pleasant reunion.

So he settled instead on a grin and, “It's good to have you back.”

“It really is,” Forsyth agreed.

“It's good to _be_ back,” Lukas said. “Now, if you'll excuse me...”

“Right, right, get back in line like a good little soldier,” Python said with a smirk. Lukas didn't rise to the bait – he never did, and that was his one glaring flaw, far as Python was concerned – only smiled once more before stepping back into the march with the grace of someone far too used to it.

When he'd gone, the two of them were left alone by the castle wall once more. Forsyth let out a considering hum, and he turned to Python.

“Do you think he meant all that about knighthood?” he asked, and then he shook his head and sighed, answered his own question before Python even opened his mouth. “No, of course he did. It's Lukas, after all; the man never says anything in jest.”

Python wasn't so sure of that last statement...but overall, he was inclined to agree. And he still didn't want to think about it, so he changed the subject.

“Well, that's one of your personal heroes out of the way,” he teased. “Shouldn't you be running after Clive now? Wouldn't want him thinking you forgot about him or nothing.”

“Very funny, Python,” Forsyth said with a long-suffering sigh. He paused. “You're not wrong, though. I _would_ like to thank him.”

“What? Come on, you're telling me that after all that, you wanna _thank_ the guy? You were completely miserable here!”

“This was an opportunity, Python! I can see that now. If not for the mission Sir Clive granted us, we never would have seen those villages. We never would have helped those people. We never could have done _any_ of this, if not for him!”

It was kind of impressive, the way Forsyth could twist any situation around until it looked exactly the way he wanted. It was also something uniquely him, and Python admitted he'd never really taken issue with it. Besides, it made for great bait.

“You're delusional,” Python said.

“You're cynical,” Forsyth countered.

And if they saw it differently, maybe it didn't matter. It never had before.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I promise to stop stealing BackForBreakfast's ideas now. Pinky swear.
> 
> Also I don't know how this turned out even dumber than the original draft, which was literally just Forsyth crying while they visited all the battlefields Alm had already cleaned up.
> 
> And if you're wondering where Mathilda is on Alm's no-recruitment run, I ask you this: Did this fic _really_ need to be any longer? Just assume she's happy and safe and kicking ass.


End file.
